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“ i5y-and-by she sat up with a feeling 

comfort her. 


that surely some one must come to 
35 - 


troitispiccc 



“THAT CHILD.” 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“THE ATELIER DU LYS,” “IN THE OLDEN TIME,” 
“ MADEMOISELLE MORI,” etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE. 

LIBRARY 

OF THE 

SUP.'.COUNCIL, 

SO.’JURISDICTION. 

NEW YORK ; 

THOMAS WHITTAKER, 

2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE. 


1886. 



?Z3 

R 54;i^ 

TJL 


Exchange 


of S 'j p re m e C o u n c/ i A. AM* fi, 

i£)«184« 


THAT CHILD. 


CHAPTER I. 

MISS BEAUMONT^S WAIF. 

J 1 1HERE are still some towns in England whicli, 
even though a railway has come close to 
them, still retain a peaceful torpor, a serene in- 
difference to all chances and changes which do not 
immediately concern them, that to some people is 
soothing, and to others exasperating. Ashbury is 
one of these. There is an old inn with its 
upper storey projecting out into the street, where 
Edward IV. is said to have slept, and the black- 
and-white timber houses which still remain here 
and there between more modern ones in the wide, 
empty High-street, are at least as old as those 
Wars of the Koses, which have nothing poetic 
about them but their name. The High-street is so 
quiet that, except on market day, a dog may lie 


2 


THAT CHILD. 


and bask there for hours before even a cart passes, 
perhaps until the shadows of the houses opposite 
lengthen with sunset, and take the warmth from 
him. The market-hall stands at its mouth, a quaint 
edifice, constructed of wood and red and black 
plaster, mounted on wooden legs. A little old 
staircase leads up to the hall overhead, and on the 
broad step made by the edge of the stone floor 
below, two or three old men from St. Wulf stands 
almshouse, who look almost as aged as the old hall, 
and much more decrepit, are sure to be sitting on 
fine days, slowly dropping out a remark now and 
then, as they feebly smoke, with crutch or stick 
laid beside them, and look out into the sunny 
vacancy of the street, and note who chances to 
come in and out of the gates of the opposite 
garden. They are now the only token left to re- 
mind Ashbury that once there had existed a great 
charitable foundation, known as St. Wulfstan^s 
Hospital, but which now had dwindled down to a 
bare maintenance for a few old people. 

That it had done so was an ever-present annoy- 
ance to Simon Ashbury, a great antiquarian and 
archaeologist, who lived close to the market-hall, in 


MISS BEAUMONT’S WAIF. 


3 


an ancient corner house, black and white, with 
square, projecting windows filled with little diamond 
panes, high gables, and a small garden, through 
which a flagged path led to the door, — a house 
evidently always kept in good preservation by 
owners who were very proud of it. For at least 
four hundred years it had always been inhabited by 
Ashburys, a family who bore the same name as the 
town in which they lived, and who were equally 
proud of name and house ; but now the long line 
was ending in a widower, who had married late in 
life, and one year later stood by the grave of his 
wife and child in the shadow of the fine old church, 
which stood at the end of the narrow passage 
leading past his house, out of the High-street, with 
a great bell-tower standing beside it. It looked 
like a strong keep, only with a much more modern 
spire perched like a fooFs cap upon its venerable 
head, to the indignation of all antiquaries. 

Since that time, which seemed quite to crush 
him, Simon Ashbury had retired more and more 
into himself, taking little share in such society as 
the country town offered, and spending his days in 
studying music, for which he had a great gift. On 
B 2 


4 


THAT CHILD. 


the death of the old organist, he had volunteered 
to take his place unpaid, to the great satisfaction of 
the vicar, who did not know one tune from another, 
and thenceforward thankfully devolved all the 
musical part of the service on Simon, no heavy 
burden after all, for the choir attempted nothing 
beyond hymns and chanting the Doxology; but 
such of the congregation as were musical listened 
with delight to the voluntaries which he played as 
the congregation entered and left the church, while 
others grumbled occasionally about the length of 
them. Indeed, though kept in some order as to 
how long he played while people came in, by a 
signal from the chorister nearest him when he 
seemed oblivious how time was passing, he would 
go on playing in the empty building, unconscious 
of all but his music and his thoughts, until the 
clerk came to warn him that he was about to lock 
up the church, and that the blower wanted to go 
home to dinner; and even then, had not the air 
suddenly ceased to fill the pipes, perhaps Simon 
would have still played on. 

Over the way, on the other side of the market- 
hall, stood the red-brick house belonging to Miss 


MISS BEAUMONTS WAIF. 


5 


Philippa Beaumont^ in its own grounds, with a 
wide lawn and great trees about it. Compared to 
the black-and-white houses of the High-street, this 
one was quite modern, although it dated at latest 
from Queen Anne^s time. Here for many years 
two maiden sisters had lived a very quiet life, 
though by rank and fortune by far the most leading 
people in Ashbury. The elder had died just before 
the making of the railway, which ran about a mile 
from the town — some people said that she had 
been so much perturbed by the innovation that it 
had killed her. The younger went on living her 
solitary life in the red-brick house, rarely going 
from home, and as rarely inviting any guests ; she 
read a great deal and gave away a great deal of 
money. There was a third sister, but she had 
struck out a line for herself after their father^s 
death, years before. She was of another nature to 
the two elder ones, — an active, bustling person, 
who had become a sort of free lance of charity, 
doing little bits of hard work, now here, now there, 
in her own peculiar fashion, useful, esteemed, but 
far less liked or likeable than her sisters. She had 
not been in Ashbury for some years ; her good 


6 


THAT CHILD, 


works absorbed her almost entirely; and besides, 
although a good woman, she had not the knack 
of getting on happily with her relations, and 
generally disapproved so decidedly both of their 
tastes and their styles of charity that it was clearly 
best they should live apart. 

She disapproved particularly of an act of kind- 
ness shown by Philippa after the eldest sister^s 
death, or rather of the way in which it was done. 
^^Most injudicious,^' she both said and wrote. 

Bring up that child if you will, but make her fit 
to earn her bread instead of pampering her," but 
she spoke and wrote in vain. That child " was 
one known in Ashbury as Avice Seaman, and she 
had at one time aroused a strong general interest 
in the town, although it had died out since, as time 
effaced the recollection of a great calamity, and 
people grew accustomed to her presence ; but any 
allusion to Avice would still recall the memory of 
that winter night of icy wind and blinding snow, 
when, while the Ashbury folks sat quietly by warm 
hearths, two trains ran into one another at the 
mouth of a tunnel a couple of miles away, and in 
an instant all was confusion, wounds, shrieks. 


MISS BEAUMONTS WAIF. 


7 


and destruction. There was no help near ; the 
gathering darkness added to the distress and con- 
fusion. The stoker of one train was fatally injured, 
the guard of the other hardly less so ; a luggage- 
van was literally smashed to pieces, and a whole 
block of carriages almost equally damaged. For- 
tunately, only a few people were travelling on this 
branch line that winter night, but hardly one of 
these escaped quite unhurt, and a young woman, 
accompanied by a child, was killed. The child, 
when taken out of the wreck of wood and iron, 
appeared dead too, but proved only severely bruised 
and stunned by a blow from part of the roof which 
lay upon her. Ashbury rose up with a great start 
from its habitual torpor when the miserable news 
reached it, and there was no lack of kindness or 
help. Every one was full of sympathy and good- 
will, and offers of service. But for the woman 
there was nothing to be done but lay her in a 
nameless grave : no one knew anything about her; 
she and her child had been the only occupants of 
the carriage in which they were found, and no 
letter or other token could be discovered by which 
any one could guess whence she had come or what 


8 


THAT CHILD. 


her name might be. The ticket in her purse 
merely showed that she had taken it from a 
junction between Ashbury and London. 

In the general destruction of luggage, it was 
difficult for any one to reclaim his scattered pos- 
sessions ; of those taken to the lost-luggage office, 
many were never even asked for. The poor 
stranger^s, no doubt, were among these. She 
looked a lady, and her dress had rather a foreign 
air — that was all that was to be discovered. Very 
general sympathy was aroused, and there was a 
large attendance at the funeral. Then came the 
question of what was to be done with the child, 
beginning to rally, but still lying between life and 
death at the station-master^s, where she had been 
carried; and the natural alarm at the prospect of 
having her on the hands of any one who ventured 
to be too much interested awoke, and chilled a 
good many who had been hitherto forward in 
expressions of kindness. 

By the time the child had recovered enough to 
be pronounced likely to do well, some people had 
begun to say that, if her family could not be 
discovered, she would have to go to the workhouse. 


MISS BEAUMONT’S WAIF. 


9 


and though others exclaimed and protested,, they 
did not offer to avert the necessity. 

It was clear that the station -master^s wife, who 
had little ones of her own, could not be expected 
to adopt this waif. She was doing her utmost by 
nursing her without any prospect of payment, and 
began to feel the burden heavy, and her husband 
grumbled ominously. She came anxiously to con- 
sult the vicar, but got no great comfort from him, 
for he was an elderly bachelor, who gave all his 
affections to his garden, and would have been very 
much interested in the child had she been a rare 
bulb or a slip, but felt quite unable to advise as the 
case stood. He was kind-hearted, however, when 
sufficiently roused, and bestirred himself to make a 
suggestion when he saw she was going away in 
tears. 

See what Miss Philippa Beaumont has to pro- 
pose,"’^ he said, and then went back to his roses 
with a sigh of relief at having shifted the respon- 
sibility. 

So the station-master^s wife left the Yicarage, 
and went through the little street, far too narrow 
for any vehicle to go along it, at the further 


10 


THAT CHILD, 


end of whicli was Simon Ashbury’s black-and- 
white honse^ passed by the market-hall, and 
entered Miss Beaumont’s gates. It was with a 
much-cheered aspect that she returned, with 
Philippa’s tall figure by her side, to the house 
where the sick child lay, still only dimly con- 
scious, and all unaware of her loss. Philippa 
was full of an eager benevolence, which never 
allowed any prudent hesitation when a kind ac- 
tion could be done. But then, as less generous 
neighbours remarked, she had plenty of money 
and no one dependent on her, and could do as 
she pleased. At all events, she did do as she 
pleased with very little consideration of what any 
one might say, or perception of it; for she lived 
too entirely in a dreamy far-away world of study 
and benevolence to know much of what was said 
or done in the every-day one around her, where 
she often got laughed at and cheated, but never 
was warned or troubled by it. The result of her 
visit to the station-master’s was that she under- 
took the care of the child, and promised to be 
responsible for her future should her family re- 
main unknown; and it seemed as if this would 


MISS BEAUMONTS WAIF. 


11 


be tbe case_, for no one inquired about ber, and 
the few words she uttered were French, which 
seemed to suggest that she and her mother were 
foreigners. She looked between six and seven 
years old. In point of fact she was quite two 
years older, but her slight make, and very 
fair freckled complexion and small features, com- 
bined with the weakness which long remained 
after she had begun to recover, gave the im- 
pression of her being much younger than she really 
was. 

As soon as the doctor would allow her to be 
moved, she was taken to the red-brick house 
which was to be her home, and no doubt the 
poor little brain was inexpressibly bewildered by 
this new and sudden change from the rooms and 
faces which were just growing a little familiar 
to her, to fresh and unknown ones. For a time 
she hardly spoke, but looked dull and confused, 
though sometimes she would fall into a passion 
of resentment at her inability either to make 
herself understood, or understand what was said 
to her. They made out that she asked vehemently 
at such times for her mother, declaring she 


12 


THAT CHILD. 


would go away and find her; but though Philippa 
read French fluently she had never spoken it, 
and her attempts only perplexed the child. What 
her name was remained long uncertain, but from 
such answers as she made, when at length she 
began to speak a little English, it appeared to 
be Seaman. This seemed to contradict the notion 
of her being French, but then she might belong 
to an English family who had lived abroad, or 
have had a French bonne. What Christian name 
she bore no one could make out at all, but 
Philippa, who was never at a loss for a theory, 
suggested that she had been called Baby,^^ and 
did not know herself otherwise. She certainly 
seemed to recognise this word, and as, when 
Philippa had once constructed a theory, it was 
next to impossible to shake her faith in it, she 
asked no more, nor troubled herself further to 
investigate this matter. Still, as she said, the 
child must have a Christian name, and she medi- 
tated much what to call her. 

It chanced that she was just then reading a life 
of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, which interested 
her very much, and by means of it she had 


MISS BEAUMONT’S WAIF. 


13 


learned two things which were new to her — first, 
that St. Elizabeth's ancestress, Hedwig, was the 
sister of that unhappy Agnes de Meranie, whom 
Philip Augustus loved and married for their 
mutual misfortune ; and secondly, that the name 
of Hedwig was another form of the English 
Avice. Only one who lives in the world of 
books, and to whom past times are almost more 
vivid and a great deal more interesting than 
present ones, could understand how much delight 
Philippa Beaumont got out of her two dis- 
coveries. One result was that she settled that 
the little foundling should be called either Hedwig 
or Avice. She hesitated long, but happily it 
struck her that if the child really was French, 
her parents, who no doubt were sufferers from 
the Franco -Prussian war, just then raging, would 
object to the German name. Even though she 
might never know who they were, she would 
have felt it wrong to act against their probable 
wishes, and the scale descended in favour of 
Avice ; and as Avice Seaman she became known 
in Ashbury, where some echoed the opinion 
of the youngest Miss Beaumont, as to the 


14 


THAT CHILD. 


unwisdom of treating her as an adopted child, 
and others said it was just like Philippa^s 
kind heart. One or two ventured to ask what 
she meant to do with her, and then it appeard 
that she had no definite plan at all. She did 
not realise that it could be necessary to have 
one. 

Four years had passed since then, and Avioe 
had had a happy, if unusual, life. Philippa and 
the child appeared to suit one another perfectly, 
though to others Avice was not engaging or 
attractive. There was very little discipline and 
no regular education in Philippa^s system, if 
system it could be called. She talked to Avice 
of all the subjects which interested herself, under 
the full belief that she was teaching her, without 
ever inquiring how much the little pitcher could 
hold of the flood poured into it, and she never 
discovered if the child was not listening. But 
usually she did listen, even if she often did not 
comprehend, for Philippa was a delightful talker, 
and full of strong interest in whatever she hap- 
pened to be studying, and she was always studying 
something ; but such knowledge as Avice acquired 


MISS BEAUMONTS WAIF. 


15 


was tumbled headlong into her mind, and lay 
there in disorder. 

E^en yet her brain worked slowly, though with 
occasional starts of activity which made her, at 
her dull times, seem wilfully perverse, and she 
would have been very trying to a teacher more 
obervant of her, and less absorbed in the subject 
they had in hand. 

She was a strange, wayward, wilful creature, 
neither caressing nor winning, and far from pretty, 
with something impish about her, which translated 
itself into saucy speeches and provoking pranks ; 
but, though Miss Beaumont would call her ^^My 
elf,^^ she was deaf and blind to all which was 
naughty in her ways; ifc made no impression on 
her when described by others, since it rarely came 
under her own eyes ; so when the servants com- 
plained, she would listen astonished, and forget 
the remonstrance she had promised to make. 

It was not very clear whether Avice loved her, 
or any one else, except Cupid, the Skye-terrier 
puppy, who was as impish and irritating as her- 
self : but Philippa and her foundling seemed very 
well satisfied so long as they were together, and 


16 


THAT CHILD, 


Ashbury matrons vainly shook their heads over 
the way in which ^^that child was being brought 
up. 

For nearly six months, however, they had not 
been together. Miss Beaumont had been reluc- 
tantly persuaded to go to London to see an old 
friend, saying she should stay one week. The 
friend, uneasy at her looks, and perhaps stimu- 
lated by some confidences from Mrs. Gauntlett, 
Philippa’s maid and housekeeper, who had ac- 
companied her, insisted on her consulting a 
physician, which she did, protesting that she 
was perfectly well, only a little tired and shaken 
by the journey. She had never been a very 
strong woman, though always considering her- 
self so, and acting as if she were. She left 
the consulting-room, warned that a very serious 
illness was hanging over her, and that she must 
not think of returning home until she had re- 
covered from it. She never did recover. Her 
indomitable hopefulness prevented her from be- 
lieving, what soon every one else knew, that 
she would probably not rally from the operation, 
which yet was her one feeble chance of life. 


MISS BEAUMONrS WAIF. 


17 


Her sister Priscilla came to be with her ; and^ 
though she was the worst of nurses, on the whole 
it was well for them to be together, for they 
were truly attached, in their own fashion, to one 
another ; but she would not believe there was 
any need for giving directions for the future. 

You know what I wish,^^ she would say ; 
her incapability of seeing things as they really 
were preventing her from understanding how 
certain it was that Miss Priscilla would take her 
own peculiar way of carrying out any wishes ex- 
pressed. But I shall go home soon.^^ 

She did go home, but not to Ashbury. The 
little town heard with a shock of regret that she 
was gone from among them for ever. 

They thought she would be buried in Ashbury 
churchyard, with her parents and elder sister, 
and there was a certain not unpleasant expecta- 
tion of a grand funeral. The eldest Miss Beau- 
mont had left full directions for hers, and it was 
conducted accordingly, in a stately, old-fashioned 
way, — with hearse and waving plumes, hat-bands, 
scarves and gloves, and funeral cakes, shaped 
like little coffins, to be sent round to relations 


0 


18 


THAT CHILD. 


and friendsj besides a great rich one, slices o£ 
wbicb were cut and offered, with wine, to visitors 
when they came later to pay tbeir ceremonial 
call of condolence on tbe surviving sister. But, 
although Philippa had strictly carried out her 
sister’s wishes, such pomp as this was not to her 
own taste. She had cared very little for show 
or luxury in life, spending her money on others, 
and careless of herself. Although her incredulity 
as to her dangerous state prevented her from 
giving orders as to many things which it would 
have been well for her to leave directions upon, 
she had stated more than once that whenever 
she should die her funeral was to be as simple 
as possible : otherwise she had left no orders ; 
she had not even looked at her will, made years 
before, and no provision was made for Avice, — 
Avice, who for the last half year had been run- 
ning wild, with no one to keep her in check, 
when Mrs. Gauntlett, the housekeeper, of whom 
she stood in some little awe, had gone away to 
London with her mistress. It was one of those 
strange oversights which seem as unaccountable 
as deplorable. The old house, and the income. 


MISS BEAUMONT’S WAIF. 


19 


and Avice_, all passed into the hands of Miss 
Priscilla Beaumont^ for_, fortunately, the house 
and land was left by their father^s will to each 
sister in succession ; and how Priscilla would deal 
with them remained to be seen. 


20 


THAT CHILD. 


CHAPTER II. 

CHILPEEIC. 

OIMON x^.SHBURY was sitting meditatively 
at his writing-table with a number of manu- 
script notes before him which he had been looking 
through. He rose^ lost in thought^ and walked 
several times up and down the long room which 
ran the whole length of the first floor of the old 
house^ with its projecting window looking out at 
one end on flat_, green flelds, bordered by ditches 
and grey willows or low hedges as far as eye could 
reach, and at the other across the High-street to the 
trees in the Beaumont garden. As he stood look- 
ing out, and thinking, without much perception of 
:anything outside his own mind, something roused 
him all at once. His blue eyes, which had re- 
tained somewhat of the clear guilelessness of 
childhood, suddenly brightened, his figure straight- 
ened itself, the old man was on the alert. He had 
seen a flash of black and yellow among those trees 
over the wa}^ such as had never met his gaze 


CHILPERIG. 


21 


before^ and suggested that he might have to add 
to the list of birds found near Ashbury — which he 
had long been compiling — the name of a golden 
oriole. There was a tradition that a pair had 
once built in the vicarage garden^, but it was too 
vague to deserve more than a passing mention. 
"With all his desire to include a rare visitant 
among the fauna of Ashbury, Simon was far too 
experienced and wary a naturalist to lend a ready 
ear to such tales. He ran for his hat, and his 
housekeeper, astonished to hear him running 
down-stairs at full speed, hurried out of the 
kitchen, just in time to see him vanish round 
the house and through the gate of the opposite 
house, looking up into the air as he went. Un- 
conscious of her amazement, he went along, 
gazing anxiously into the great limes, now just 
in their fresh leafy beauty, as yet untouched by 
rude winds or the summer heat which by-and-by 
would darken their foliage. Many little birds 
were chirping among them, but not the only one 
which just then had any interest for Simon 
Ashbury. The old gardener, whom Philippa 
Beaumont had employed because no one else would 


22 


THAT CHILD. 


put up with his obstinacy and slowness, was 
weeding the drive with deliberation which pro- 
mised to give one weed time to grow while he 
pulled up the next. Simon hurried up to him. 

Good day, Zachary,^^ he said, hurriedly ; you 
have been here all the morniDg. Now, have you 
happened to notice a bird about as big as a 
thrush, black and yellow ? I know you are a 
good hand about birds. 

Oh, ay, I am that,^^ said Zachary, turning 
his head aside, and fixing one eye on Simon, 
much as a bird himself might have done. I 
expect there’s few in these parts knows as much, 
though there’s some as thinks they do, no doubt.” 

^^Well, have you seen the bird I speak of?” 
asked Simon, ignoring this palpable hit. I saw 
it fly into that lime just now.” 

There’s no such bird been here,” said Zachary, 
with determination ; if there had I must have 
seen it.” 

But I tell you I did see it,” replied Simon, 
a good deal moved from his usual placidity, but 
well aware it was worse than useless to quarrel 
with the provoking old man, who was a bird- 


CHILFEPdC. 


23 


catcher in his leisure hours^ and really knew as 
much about the feathered gent as he asserted. 

It was a golden oriole_, the bird that is said to 
have built in the vicarage garden forty years ago, 
according to an entry in Gerald Wilson^s journal, 

published in the Archaeological but that^s no 

matter.^^ 

Oh, aye, some folks would take a ^orned howl 
for a blue Isaac, or a blue Isaac for a ^orned 
howl,^^ said Zachary. (A blue Isaac was the 
local name for a hedge-sparrow.) I expect what 
you saw was a jay.-’^ 

^^A jay ! exclaimed Simon, outraged. ^‘^Do 
you think I don^t know a jay when I see one ? 
Is a jay black and yellow ? I tell you it was a 
golden oriole, and nothing but a golden oriole."’^ 

As you like, sir, but it stands to reason 
I should have seen it if •’twere in this garden,^^ 
replied Zachary, unmoved ; but the gentry alius 
likes to believe they knows best.^^ 

And he pulled up a dandelion with an air 
of calm contempt. Simon went on through the 
garden, looking up into the trees and shrubs, but 
without catching sight of his bird. There were 


24 


THAT CHILD. 


cole-tits and blue-tits in all sorts of positions as 
they hunted for green-fly on the rose-trees which 
covered the front of the house ; a pair of chaf- 
finches called Fink ! fink ! at the top of their 
voices ; speckled thrushes hopped boldly on the 
lawn ; a shabby hen blackbird rushed out of a 
bush with a scream as if his approach had sent 
her into hysterics ; the note of some newly-arrived 
summer visitant was recognised by his practised 
ear ; all the small fowls of the air seemed at 
home in this shady spot, except the golden oriole. 
As Simon went round the house, he remembered 
that some one had told him it was the day on 
which Philippa Beaumont was to be buried. The 
blinds were all down, the front door shut; the 
house looked deserted — a strange contrast to the 
sweet May day, and the freshness of spring all 
round it. It occurred to him to wonder what 
had become of Avice Seaman. The next instant 
he came in sight of the wide lawn, unbroken by 
flower-beds, but with two or three great cedars 
sweeping the turf, and his unspoken question was 
answered. 

A line of flower-pots stood arranged on stakes 


CHILFERia 


25 


half across ifc, and at these, from a considerable 
distance, a child with a mane of yellow hair was 
aiming a short stick, very dexterously, seldom 
failing to hit the mark at which she flung it. If 
the pot were knocked over and broken her triumph 
was complete, and she leaped in the air and 
clapped her hands with a shout of joy. She was 
so absorbed by her game that she did not notice 
Simon, who stood watching her, diverted from his 
quest by the earnestness and adroitness which she 
showed. Old Zachary, who had followed unper- 
ceived, inwardly jealous and disquieted about the 
oriole, — though he would not have admitted it 
to save his life,— bustled forward, spluttering with 
wrath. 

“ Miss Avice ! Miss Avice ! he cried. Drat 
that child, she^s alius in mischief. You be off, 
missy, and don^t let me catch you again breaking 
of my pots, or you^ll see something you don^t 
like.^^ 

Avice replied by a laugh of defiance, aimed a 
stick at a last pot, and then, suddenly changing 
its direction, sent it flying between Simon and the 
gardener, so that both involuntarily started apart. 


26 


THAT CHILD. 


Slie laughed agaiu^ looked at them like a very 
embodiment of mischief and mockery^ and ran off 
to the house_, while Zachary muttered^ angrily, 

time some one came to set that child to 
rights ; she^s an out-and-out little ” He swal- 

lowed an uncomplimentary word as he met Simon’s 
eyes with a smile in them. And not a bit of 
feeling, too, at her pranks like that, the very 
day poor Miss Philippa is laid in her grave. Ah, 
well, we shall have Miss Priscilla here soon, and 
she won’t stand no nonsense,” Zachary said, with 
a certain savage satisfaction. 

Simon could not help wondering whether, 
among the reforms which Miss Priscilla might 
carry out, Zachary would not find himself included . 
It would require a very tolerant mistress to put 
up with him or his style of gardening, and Simon 
was the more disposed to think so when he asked, 
with a chuckle. 

Well, Muster Ashbury, you don’t seem to find 
the horiole, do you ? Maybe, ’fcwas a jay after 
all.” 

Simon walked away, and Zachary went back to 
his weeding in a leisurely manner ; but, discover- 


CEILPEEia 


27 


ing dinner-time was almost at hand^ tliought it 
waste of time to begin again only to leave off, 
andj leaning on the spade with which he had 
been rooting up plantains and dandelions, looked 
vaguely about him. As he did so, something 
moved in a shrub close by, something yellow and 
black. The old man opened his eyes and mouth 
and stared at it. 

Why His” he said aloud, as conviction forced 
itself upon him. Muster Ashbury was right, 
after all. But I^m not going to let him know 
that,^^ he added quickly ; he’s a deal too much 
set up with his knowledge already. No, I’m not 
going to tell him, though I daresay it would be 
as good as half-a- crown to me,” he added ruefully. 

Shooh ! shooh ! get along with ye. I wish I 
had a gun here, I do. You’d sell for something 
to Muster Price, the bird-stuffer in Hereford. ’Tis 
a main pity not to shoot you.” 

You’d better ! ” cried the defiant voice of 
Avice. She had been to the house, and now re- 
turned with a basket in which was her dinner, 
taken by herself, without leave asked, from the 
larder. Oh, the beauty ! Ply away, pretty 


28 


THAT CHILD. 


one ; nobody shall touch you. We don^t let our 
birds be shot — don^t be afraid. Miss Philippa will 
send stupid old Zachary away if he hurts you.^^ 
However dare you talk like that^ and Miss 
Philippa laid in the grave this day ? said 
Zachary. ^^YouVe got no heart,, that^s what it 
is.^^ 

YeSj thaPs what Eliza has just been saying/^ 
answered Avice. Eliza was the housemaid,, and 
she had been scandalised by Avice rushing in 
and meeting her^ taking her round the waisp and 
spinning her round. I can^t help it ; it^s not 
my fault, and I daresay it^s more comfortable. 
Do you want me to cry, like this ? putting her 
knuckles in her eyes. Pd try, only Pve lost 
my pocket-handkerchief, and I should not like 
to use yours. 

YouVe lost something else, and thaPs a good 
friend,^’ said Zachary, really angry, for all her 
household had truly loved kind Philippa Beau- 
mont ; and that youh^e like to learn."’^ 

Oh, well, I daresay I shall find another,^ ^ said 
Avice, and ran off, while he shook his head 
solemnly as he looked after her. 


CHILPEBIC. 


29 


That lass will come to no good/^ he said 
aloud. Wherever be she going now ? 

For Avice had run down the drive, and he 
heard the heavy iron gates clang after her. 

Avice had not quite made up her mind where 
she would go. The gloom of the house weighed 
on her. She was frightened and bewildered by 
the news of Miss Beaumont’s death, even though 
she hardly realised it as a fact. There was a 
dreary sense of loss and apprehension, but the 
knowledge that she was expected to show sorrow 
and shed tears had the effect of driving her into 
bravado and apparent hardness. There were sobs 
struggling now in her throat, but it only made 
her the more outwardly indifferent. In the dark- 
ness, alone in her bed these last nights, she had 
cried passionately, but by day she had succeeded 
in showing so little feeling that it was no wonder 
all the household thought her a stony-hearted little 
ingrate. She resented very much being told on 
all hands that she owed everything to Philippa. 
To be called on for gratitude roused her into 
angry revolt. It was to shake off her painful, 
confused sensations that she laughed, and ran, and 


30 


THAT CHILD. 


shouted on tins sad day, but no one could know 
that. 

After a nioment^s pause of indecision, she deter- 
mined to escape from all these tiresome people, 
and spend the rest of the day out of doors. She 
called Cupid, the Skye puppy, and turned her 
steps towards the Midsummer Hill, which she had 
occasionally visited with Miss Philippa, who had 
told her that sacrifices had been offered there and 
solemn services held in days before Saxon or 
Norman foot had trodden English soil ; and they 
had traced out the British camp which had once 
crowned its summit; and Avice had heard, too, 
how, in much later days, when England rose up 
with one accord to encounter the Spaniard, a 
beacon had flared there which could be seen by 
twelve counties round. Although the country 
around Ashbury was flat and pastoral, not far off 
a chain of rocky hills, covered with short, slippery 
turf, rose abruptly from the plain. It was no 
trifling distance from Ashbury to the Midsummer 
Hill, but Philippa had been an indefatigable 
walker, and Avice had learned to be the same, 
acquiring much of Philippa’s stoical indifference 


CHILPERIC. 


31 


to heat, cold, hunger or fatigue, when interested 
in anything, and not a little of her entire forget- 
fulness of time or regular hours. There never 
had been any possibility of guessing when Philippa 
would come in if once she went out, nor when she 
would lay aside any occupation which engrossed 
her, and all meals were movable feasts in her 
house. 

Avice had led exactly the same life, sitting up 
late and eating at hap-hazard, but always rising 
very early, for Philippa was one of those people 
who hardly seem to need sleep, and it could not 
be impressed on her that all this was singularly 
bad for a child. Probably the want of sleep and 
regular meals had contributed to keep Avice small 
and thin — at all events, it had made her a very 
unruly little mortal, and in these last months, 
when she had no companions but servants, who 
had no authority over her, she had grown quite 
unmanageable. 

She walked sturdily on, sometimes calling to 
Cupid, who rushed about, a tangle of woolly hair, 
looking as if a door-mat had come to life, but 
oftener marching along with her lips tight shut. 


32 


THAT CHILD. 


and taking no notice of the country sights and 
sounds which she loved^ though she stopped once 
with irrepressible interest as she saw a weasel run 
out of a drain across the road, and discovered 
that the dust was all marked with tracks of little 
paws, showing that this was a weasel-run. Miss 
Philippa would have liked to see that,’^ she 
thought, and closed her lips faster and went on. 
The sense of loneliness and loss was growing very 
strong. She did not think at all about her own 
future, or Miss Priscilla, on whose will and plea- 
sure it would depend. She only wanted her friend, 
the one person to whom she had belonged since 
that terrible night which cut her life in two. The 
blank which followed had been at first complete ; 
it was only from time to time that anything which 
preceded it returned to her memory, and often, 
when she seemed to have grasped some frag- 
ment of recollection, it eluded her, and was gone 
again, leaving a painful sense of loss and bewilder- 
ment. 

In a couple of hours she reached the slope which 
she wanted to climb. She was tired, but she 
set herself to mount it, scorning to take a round- 


CHILPEBIG. 


33 


about way, and ascending the steep hill-side va- 
liantly. There was no kind of danger, but it was 
hard work ; even Cupid seemed to find it so as 
they toiled up, with the view over the plain ex- 
tending wider and wider into blue distance and 
to far-off ranges of hills in other counties as they 
went higher. Avice liked the sense of space and 
freedom in this great view; the silence and soli- 
tude had a charm for her, though she could not 
have told why. 

Just below the British camp a donkey was 
tethered, with her shaggy little foal beside her. 
Cupid ran and barked at them, so Avice, to atone 
for the fright he had given them, took a roll from 
her basket and divided it between them. The 
mother-donkey had a long, patient, weary face, 
the foal an inquiring and wondering one, but both 
roused up into intelligent interest when the bread 
was produced, and the foal showed such appre- 
ciation of a handful of chocolate drops as made 
Avice laugh aloud. They looked wistfully after 
her as she went on, having awakened a taste for 
luxuries in them which it is to be feared would 
never again be gratified. She stood looking 
D 


34 


THAT CHILD. 


for some time upon the expanse below^ a vast 
panorama where many towers of castles and 
cathedrals rose in the mist of distance. Avice 
had learned to know them all from Philippa^ and 
to name all the hills, from the distant Mendip 
range to the solitary Wrekin, far away on the 
horizon. 

The little child-figure stood motionless on the 
hill-top, in the centre of the camp, the wind 
blowing strong and chill around her, as it almost 
always did at that height. She had a strange, 
far-away look in her grey eyes, and knit her brows 
as if trying to recall something. Cupid sat at her 
feet, looking up at her inquiringly through a 
tangle of hair. An indistinct recollection had all 
at once occurred to her of standing at some long- 
past time on a hill-top, and seeing a plain below, — 
or was it broad sands ? — and a high rock or castle, 
she could not tell which, — it all faded and grew 
dim, melting away as she tried to recall it. She 
sighed impatiently, and went a little way down 
the hill -side to shelter herself from the wind, 
taking a book from her basket to read while she 
ate ; but it lacked its usual interest, and she laid 


CIIILPEBIG. 


35 


it down, and pulled idly at the stones embedded 
in the turf, or lay looking up at the clouds floating 
overhead, without any definite thoughts, but the 
sense of loss and loneliness grew ever stronger, 
until all at once she threw herself face downward 
on the grass, sobbing out, Oh, Miss Philippa ! 
Oh, Miss Philippa ! ^Mn a burst of stormy grief 
and longing. By-and-by she sat up, with a feel- 
ing that surely some one must come to comfort 
her, or something consoling would happen ; she 
could not be so sad and nothing occur to help 
her, she thought, with a child^s incredulity of 
trouble and revolt against it. But no one came 
and nothing happened. The bees hummed in the 
thyme, and the light and shade chased each other 
over the wide plain, and the shadow of a rook 
flapping overhead crossed the hill-side where she 
sat, and that was all. She passed her hand 
through Cupid’s rough coat and kissed him. 

She’s buried by now,” the child said in a 
whisper, ^‘and they have left her all alone with 
the other dead people somewhere.” She shud- 
dered and turned pale. Avice was a very nervous 
child, whose fanciful sorrow would keep her awake 
D 2 


36 


THAT CHILD, 


at night, cold and rigid, afraid to stir, terrified 
she hardly knew at what, but for that very reason 
almost the more frightened. Miss Beaumont, un- 
awares, had fostered rather than calmed this dis- 
position. Now, even in full daylight, the sense 
of solitude, the thought she had conjured up, the 
uncertainty where her friend had been laid, — for 
the name of the London cemetery told her no- 
thing, — all scared her as if some frightful thing had 
started up visibly beside her. In a panic of un- 
reasonable alarm she sprang up and fled down 
the hill, soon losing her footing and rolling, un- 
able to stop herself for many yards, until she 
reached a rain-worn track, where rough ground 
gave her a chance of twisting sideways and gra- 
dually checking her descent, though her basket 
went rolling on, over and over, with Cupid bark- 
ing after it, until it dropped five feet or more into 
the road at the hill-foot ; for the slope here ended 
abruptly in a rough, precipitous bank, from which 
a fall would have meant broken bones. Avice 
was aware of it, and went homewards soberly, 
with the consciousness of an escape from consider 
able danger. It would have exhilarated some 


CHILPERIC. 


37 


children, but, except by fits and starts, her spirits 
were never high, and she was an odd mixture of 
cowardice and audacity. However, her tumbles 
and the peril she had run had the good effect of 
driving all fanciful fears out of her. 

Simon Ashbury had started from home rather 
later than Avice, and chanced to take the same 
road. He had been too unusually moved and 
excited to settle down quietly again to his books or 
writing ; he was restless, and felt as if he must go 
out of doors. A jay,^^ he muttered, still greatly 
ruffled, and so unaccustomed to be ruffled that he 
did not know how to deal with such a mood, and 
he walked along much more rapidly than was his 
use, thinking about the oriole and the pigheaded- 
ness of the old gardener. He walked away out 
into the country, towards the hills, so occupied by 
his thoughts that he nearly passed the vicar of 
Ashbury, coming from an opposite direction, with- 
out seeing him. 

Hallo ! whither away ? the vicar asked, 
arresting his progress, and he stood and stared 
at him in an uncomprehending way, which made 
the other laugh. The vicar had been for a long 


38 


THAT CHILD, 


tramp_, and was very dusty ; lie wore a rusty coat 
and a tumbled white cravat; in his hand was a 
spike of dull purple lily flowers, which he was 
carrying with great care and pride. Composing 
a chapter of your history of Ashbury, eh ? 

No, Mr. Lisle, nothing of the kind. But I 
might have had a valuable addition to our local 
fauna to chronicle had I been a little more fortu- 
nate. You will hardly believe it, perhaps, but I 
am confident that I saw a golden oriole — Oriolus 
galbula, you know, the loriot of the French. It is 
unquestionably one of our English visitants, though 
rare, and Yarrell mentions an instance of a pair 
breeding in Norfolk, and I have heard of a nest 
being found near Huntingdon. But, unless I 
could see the bird again, I should hardly feel 
justified in claiming its presence here. It has a 
peculiar interest for you, since there is reason to 
think that a pair once nested in your own garden. 
Old Zachary might have used his eyes, one would 
think. It is mortifying — most mortifying ! 

Oh, well, I dare say you will have another 
chance of seeing it,^^ said the vicar, too much 
engrossed by his own hobby to be sympathetic 


CHILPEBIC. 


39 


with that of another man. Look here_, Ashbury, 
I have had a bit of luck this morning. You see 
this lily ? The May or Persian lily of old herbals. 
What a catch for my collection of old-fashioned 
flowers ! Of course, I can^t move the bulbs now, 
but the woman in whose garden I discovered it 
has promised me some at the right time. I can^t 
tell you how pleased I am.^^ 

^^The old white lily is a thousand times more 
beautiful, said Simon, resenting the vicar^s in- 
difierence to his Oriolus galhula ; for my part, I 
don^t care for garden flowers. Now, that cranesbill 
I got in the Gullet last week ivas worth dis- 
covering; hitherto no one has catalogued it as a 
species belonging to this district. If I could have 
added the oriole as well to my list of the fauna and 
flora of Ashbury 

‘^My dear man, how can you talk to me of 
cranesbills ? Even though you only appreciate 
weeds and the like rubbish, you surely can under- 
stand that the Persian lily has become a rarity — a 
treasure ! exclaimed the vicar, as much disturbed 
by Simonas coolness as to his discovery as Simon 
had been by his want of proper feeling about the 


40 


THAT CHILD. 


oriole. Do you know that Gerarde tells us it 
only flourished in the sixteenth century in a few 
London gardens ? And Alphonsus Paulius, phy- 
sician to the Duke of Ferrara, who sent it to the 
well-known Carolus Clusius, especially remarked 
that it entirely differs from the Crown Imperial. 
Gerarde tells us very rightly that it was esteemed 
for its nature and comely proportions.^^ 

^^Ay/^ retorted Simon, “"and, if I do not mis- 
take, he also says that, if one may be so bold with 
a stranger that has vouchsafed to travel so many 
thousands of miles to make our acquaintance, we 
have in our English gardens many scores of flowers 
far excelling it.^^ 

It is not by any means the wisest thing he has 
said, nor the best worth quoting,^^ said the vicar, 
testily. But you are going further. I won^t 
stay you. Good-day.^^ 

And he marched off, regarding his lily with a 
hurt tenderness, which left Simon smiling. 

^^I don^t know that I am a bit wiser where my 
own hobbies are concerned,’^ he admitted; ^^but 
only a mere florist could imagine that a garden 
flower could be considered for a moment of half 


CHILFERIC. 


41 


tlie importance that my cranesbill why, what’s 

going on there ? ” 

The hundred yards or so which he had walked 
after parting from the vicar brought him within 
sight of a couple of cottages and a pool, into which 
a lad, perhaps ten years old, had thrown some- 
thing, at which a second urchin was now aiming 
stones. So far the sight was common enough ; 
but what had called forth Simon’s exclamation was 
seeing a girl, who had been coming along the road, 
suddenly quicken her pace to a run, dash at the 
boy with the stones, and, as far as Simon could see 
from where he was, knock the missiles out of his 
hand and his hat over his eyes, and then rush 
into the pond all in the same moment. Simon 
quickened his steps, and came up just as she 
waded back to the road where the boys stood, 
still too much taken aback to do more than 
stare, though recovering enough to be ready for 
mischief. 

I say, you just leave that caat alone ; ’tis my 
caat, and we be going to drown it,” the elder was 
saying, menacingly. 

And then Simon saw that she held some small 


42 


THAT CHILD, 


creature^ so covered with mud that^ but for hearing 
it called a cat^ he would not have known what 
it was. 

Go along ! she cried, while the water dripped 
from her clothes, and she looked nearly as disrepu- 
table as the kitten in her arms. You are bad, 
wicked boys, and Fll tell the Society for the 
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals of you. Miss 
Philippa subscribes to it, and 1^11 have you 
punished.-’^ 

Wull ye? retorted the boys, advancing, but 
Simonas sharp call startled them, and they ran off. 

Oh, I^m glad you are there ! cried the girl, 
and, to his astonishment, he recognised Avice 
Seaman. Just look, they were stoning this poor 
little kitten ! It is half-dead. Kittens must be 
drowned sometimes, of course, but that is no 
reason for torturing them. Poor little thing ! 

Have they hurt it ? asked Simon, looking at 
the mass of mud which she was cherishing. 

I don^t know. I shall take it home and give 
it warm milk with a lump of sugar. That is what 
one should do when a cat has got a chill.^^ 

I should be afraid you had got a chill too,^’ 


CHILFEBIC. 


43 


said Simon, turning homeward with her, lest the 
boys should be lying in wait. 

I ? Oh, no, only Eliza will be mad at my 
getting so dirty, but it was not my fault.^^ 

What will Eliza do to you ? 

If she is in a good humour she will only scold, 
but if she^s cross I shall go to bed without tea,'^ 
said Avice, indifferently. 

‘^Dear, dear,^^ said Simon, pitifully, ^^are the 

servants allowed by Miss Beaumont ” He 

stopped remorsefully; it had escaped his memory 
for the moment that her place was empty. Avice 
made no answer, but asked abruptly, ^^It^s you 
who play the organ ? 

Yes,^^ said Simon, smiling, and glad to turn to 
another subject. Where do you sit in church ? 

In the side chapel with the Early Perpen- 
dicular window,^^ said Avice, who had picked 
up a smattering of architectural terms from Miss 
Beaumont. Where your tablet is, you know — 
the one to Lucy Ashbury and the baby.^^ 

She said it with the unconscious hard-hearted- 
ness of a child too self-engrossed to realise other 
people^s feelings, and when she saw Simon flinch 


44 


THAT CHILD. 


and grow pale she stared more in curiosity than 
sympathy; but gradually she felt as if she had 
been cruel to some poor animal. She had often 
been reproached for saying rude or* unkind things, 
without the least repentance, but the sense that 
she had given acute pain to this gentle, quiet man 
startled and frightened her. 

Ah, you sit there,^^ he said, dreamily, and with 
a wistful look ; yes, yes.^^ 

Avice looked at him again, and then at the 
kitten, opening a crack of the basket into which 
she had put it. I think it is coming all right,^^ 
she said, and Simon roused himself out of his 
abstraction and said kindly, So do I. What 
shall you call it ? 

^^It is a long-haired kitten,^^ said Avice, with 
some excitement, '^just see. I do wonder where 
those nasty boys found it. It ought to have a nice, 
hairy sort of name.’^ 

Chilperic,^^ suggested Simon, not at all sup- 
posing she would understand the allusion, but 
she did. 

That would do nicely — or Clodoald. Chilperic, 
I think ; but I hope it won’t be lazy and good for 


CHILPEBIG. 


45 


nothing, and only fit to be a monk, like those 
Meerwig kings 

What do you know of the Meerwigs, child ? 
Again she gave no answer, and he rightly 
guessed that Philippa had told or read to her 
something of French history. Her silence im- 
pressed him favourably. They were now close to 
his house, but he turned in at the opposite gate 
with her and rang at the door- bell. A maid came 
to open, and an exclamation of angry surprise 
escaped her on seeing the condition of Avice; but 
he stopped further speech by saying, The little 
girl is not to blame ; she acted very rightly. Let 
her have some tea, and change her things, and 
that — in a lowered tone which made Avice prick 
up her ears — ‘^is for your trouble.^^ 

Whatever it was that he slipped into her hand, it 
brought an immediate lightening of her stormy 
looks, and she said cheerfully, ITl see to it, sir. 
Come, Miss Avice ; why, whatever have you got 
there ? A kitten ! well, I never ! 

Good-bye,^^ said Avice to Simon; shall call 
it Chilperic."’^ 


THAT CHILD. 


CHAPTEE III. 

A NEW DYNASTY. 

1 1 1W0 days later Miss Priscilla Beaumont arrived, 
— so late that Avice was supposed to be in 
bed, though, in fact, sbe was peeping over tbe ban- 
nisters into the hall, trying to get sight of the new- 
comer, who appeared to her almost an intruder, 
and much less at home here than herself. She 
heard a voice brisk, but otherwise oddly like that 
of Philippa, pitched a tone higher, and it vexed and 
irritated Avice, both by its likeness and unlikeness ; 
and then she saw a figure in deep black moving 
about as she paid her fly and counted her boxes 
with rapid, abrupt movements. Thus much was 
certain, nothing could less resemble the tall, full 
figure and handsome features of Philippa Beaumont 
than did this alert, decided personage. 

Avice drew back into her bedroom in a huriy, 
for with a sudden whisk Priscilla was half-way up- 
stairs almost before Avice had seen her turn that 
way. Being habitually a good deal interested in 


A NEW DYNASTY, 


47 


herself, Avice was apt to fancy every one else was 
so too, and she expected a visit from her, and pre- 
pared, in quite a dramatic little way, what to say 
and do ; but when at length her door opened, and 
she stood in an expectant and reserved attitude, it 
was not Miss Priscilla, bnt Eliza, who came in, 
having noticed a light shining under her door, to 
see why she was not in bed. 

Did she ask about me ? inquired Avice, 
eagerly. 

About you ? Bless you, no ; she had something 
better to think about,^^ said Eliza, snappishly, and 
went away with the candle, iv She did not think 
that the household were going to have an easy time 
of it, from the little they had already seen of their 
new mistress. 

Miss Priscilla was up very early. In early 
rising, at all events, she resembled her sister ; and 
she had inspected the garden and farm-yard, and 
spoken her mind very plainly to all concerned as 
to the want of order and trimness which she 
detected everywhere, before she rang the dining- 
room bell for family prayers at eight o’clock. 
Avice came slowly in with an ungracious air. 


48 


THAT CHILD. 


'^Well^ little girl/^ said Miss Priscilla, giving 
lier a sharp glance ; and at that moment the maids 
followed, and she read prayers, after which she cut 
a thick slice of bread and buttered it, poured out 
a cup of milk, to which she added hot water, and 
pushed them towards Avice before taking her 
own place. 

I have tea, not milk and water,’^ said Avice, 
all indignant astonishment. 

Tea is not good for little girls,^^ answered 
Miss Priscilla, and opened the letters, of which 
there were a pile by her plate. 

She never read a letter until after prayers, but 
now she opened one envelope after another while 
she ate her dry toast as if she neither knew nor 
cared on what she was breakfasting. Avice stared 
at her ready to burst out into passion, but some- 
thing in the perfect indifference of Priscilla^s air 
checked her. If a look or a glance had been given 
her she would have had a dozen saucy speeches 
ready, but how could she address one who had 
evidently forgotten all about her, and who was 
a grown-up lady, while ' she was only a child ? 
At first she thought she would refuse to eat. 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


49 


and go away, but wbat would be the good of 
that? She sullenly took what had been given 
her, looking from under scowling brows at Miss 
Priscilla. 

She treats me like one of her charity girls,^^ 
she thought, recollecting that she had heard that 
Priscilla had at one time helped to teach in some 
orphanage ; and, in fact, this was Priscilla Beau- 
months chief experience of children, and uncon- 
sciously she regarded the little waif and stray as 
of the same class and race, and requiring the same 
treatment. She was as matter-of-fact as Philippa 
had been imaginative, and just as immovable when 
she once got a notion into her head. As long as 
they lived together, she would never alter the 
opinion which she formed of Avice that first 
morning. Avice finished her breakfast, and made 
a stealthy attempt to slip away, but, busied as 
Priscilla was with her letters, her black beady 
eyes were upon her at once. 

Sit down, child ; I shall want you presently,^^ 
she said, and Avice subsided, though the tumult 
within her grew each moment. She had not long 
to wait. Come here, little girl,^' Miss Priscilla 

E 


50 


THAT CHILD. 


saidj and Avice came and stood before ber^ tbougb 
muttering to berself : — 

If that’s polite, I don’t know what politeness 
is. Why can’t she call me Avice ? ” 

I suppose you have been running wild all this 
time,” said Priscilla, surveying her disapprovingly, 
though not unkindly. Well, now you must make 
up for it as fast as you can. I shall teach you for a 
couple of hours every morning, and in the afternoon 
you will do needlework — Mrs. Gauntlett will see 
to that ; and then you must learn your lessons for 
the next day. Now, let me see what you know. 
Fetch your books.” 

She spoke brusquely, as if she had not a 
moment to lose. Avice did not stir. 

Well, why don’t you get your lesson-books ? ” 
I have none.’’ 

How, none ? What do you mean ? My sister 
told me you were fairly versed in history and 
geography. What did she teach out of ? ” 

Her head.” 

“ Her head ! ” repeated Miss Priscilla. Speak 
sense, child. You must have books if you have 
learned anything. What do you mean ? ” 


A NEW DYNASTY, 


51 


Slie read and I read, and slie told me tliings,^^ 
said Avice, in a tone whose pain sounded like 
sulkiness. 

Priscilla gave a hopeless gesture. 

Well, if you learned much that way, I can 
only say it was little short of a miracle. I must 
buy you some of the books the girls used at St. 
Helenas. Can you say your dates ? 

What dates ? asked Avice, not unreasonably. 

Try the kings of England, and say whom each 
married.^^ 

But if they never married ? suggested Avice, 
with a gleam under her very thick, light eye- 
lashes. 

^^Then, of course, you canT say their wives,^^ 
said Priscilla, who owned no more sense of humour 
than Philippa had had ; but while it merely made 
the one sister curiously insensible to the oddness 
of many of her acts and theories, it made the 
other obstinately matter-of-fact and suspicious of 
every one who had a sense of the ridiculous. 

It turned out that Avice could neither say dates 
nor wives. She had a great deal of scrappy 
historical knowledge, and took a vivid interest in 
E 2 


52 


THAT CHILD. 


many historical characters ; but whether they 
lived five hundred years ago or were just dead she 
hardly understood at all. Such learning as she 
had was exactly of the kind to irritate a methodical 
person like Priscilla,, whose knowledge was limited, 
but orderly and producible, and who thought with 
justice that a heap of unconnected facts 'was not 
the food which a child^s mind required. As she 
questioned Avice she grew more and more provoked, 
and the girl more and more wilfully provoking, 
each angering the other. At last she tore an 
envelope into four pieces with a jerk, which worked 
off some of her displeasure. 

There ! take one of these and write down all 
you do know upon it,^^ she said, ironically, there 
will be plenty of room.^^ 

I know as much as Miss Philippa taught 
me,^^ Avice answered, setting her lips hard 
-together, and looking Priscilla in the face. 

Impudent little thing ! thought Miss Priscilla ; 
but being a just woman, though a hasty one, she 
inwardly owned that perhaps the girl was not 
altogether in fault, and she was pausing a moment, 
uncertain what to say, when Chilperic bounced 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


53 


through the window^ — no longer a muddj^ miser- 
able object^ but a kitten in a satin coat, with a 
little feathery tail full of promise, a pinky-brown 
nose, and an air as if the house and everything in 
it belonged to him. 

What cat is that ? exclaimed Paiscilla. 

IPs mine ; I found it in a pond and brought 
it home.^^ 

can^t have it here; I do not like cats, and I 
never allow one in my house. I must find another 
home for it,^^ said Miss Priscilla, who, having no 
love for animals, had not the least notion how 
strong an affection they awake in those who find 
in them companions and humble friends. Avice 
looked at her aghast. 

^^He^s my cat,^"’ she said, snatching it up as it 
scrambled with a sudden rush up the back of a 
tall chair and perched on the top, looking about 
in the proud consciousness of having performed 
a remarkable feat. 

That may be, but he lives in my house and 
eats my food, and I don^t choose he should, so he 
must go. Now run away, — I have no more time 
to waste on you this morning. I shall tell 


54 


THAT CHILD. 


Gauntlett to set you some needlework. What are 
you waiting for ? 

Avice was screwing herself up to declare she 
could not and would not part with Chilperic_, but 
the nervousness which sometimes paralysed her 
audacity seized her and made speech impossible. 
She looked at Miss Priscilla and could find no 
words ; carrying the kitten in her arms_, she 
silently left the room. 

Miss Priscilla was always as good as her word. 
The following morning she had found a new home 
for Chilperic, but when she ordered the kitten to 
be fetched and sent away, it was nowhere to be 
found. She summoned Avice to say where it 
was. 

shanT/’ she muttered, and stood dumb, 
with a look of triumphant resolution while Miss 
Priscilla scolded — and she knew how to scold. 

Well, never mind,^^ Priscilla said at last, ^^we 
shall not have much difficulty in finding out,^^ 
and so dismissed the matter for the moment. Al- 
though Avice was not popular with them, the 
servants were sorry for her; even austere Mrs. 
Gauntlett thought this hard measure, and not 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


55 


what poor Miss Philippa would have liked, and 
if milk and meat disappeared from the larder 
next day the cook said nothing, nor did old 
Zachary, who had his own grievances, help in 
the search; and Priscilla had so much to do in 
these first days that she could not carry out 
her investigations as thoroughly as she certainly 
would have otherwise done. 

Ashbury had made up its mind that she would 
of course remain in decorous retirement until she 
had appeared at church on the Sunday after 
arrival, in new mourning covered with crape, 
after which she would receive visitors, and offer 
cake and wine to all comers; and not a little 
scandal was given by her marching about the 
streets, in black certainly, but then she always 
wore black, and no crape at all. It furnished 
food for conversation in every social meeting or 
visit that week in Ashbury. 

But then she always was peculiar even as a 
girl, and no doubt has grown more so in all these 
years,^^ one lady would say to another, shaking 
her head. 

Eeturning from one of her excursions into the 


56 


THAT CHILD. 


town,, where she had gone to look up something* 
which had not been sent from the stationer^s 
with the promptitude she desired^ she encountered 
the vicar, whom she had known well in former 
years. 

Good morning, Mr. Lisle,^’ said she; ^^just 
come in; I was wanting to see you. I should 
like to know what charities my sister subscribed 
to ; but mind I don^t promise to go on with them. 
I don^t approve of that sort of lavish giving, right 
and left, that she fell into ; it only pauperises a 
place, and just means one can^t say ^ No.^ I shan^t 
continue that kind of thing, I can tell you, so 
no one need expect it.’’^ 

The vicar bowed : what else could he do ? He 
was a peaceable man to whom the strife of tongues 
— especially of women^s tongues — was abhorrent, 
and this attack quite dazed him. It had crossed his 
mind that perhaps he ought to pay a visit to this 
house of mourning, and say what he could to 
comfort the only surviving sister, but he had 
been a little afraid of Priscilla in past years, 
and resolved to wait a day or two. At the time 
when she assaulted him in this unprovoked manner. 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


57 


lie had forgotten all about her, lost in considering 
whether or not to send for certain plants which 
he had seen advertised in his gardening news- 
paper that morning. As Simon Ashbury had said, 
with a severity foreign to his gentle nature, and 
only to be explained by the trial of temper he 
had undergone that day, the vicar was a mere 
florist.^^ No wild flower had the least interest 
for him, and he would throw away many a plant 
which a neighbour would gladly have possessed 
because it did not reach his standard of perfec- 
tion. I will give what is worth having/^ he 
would say, ^^but I will not be the means of pro- 
pagating what is imperfect.^^ His one extrava- 
gance was buying rare plants, or, what he liked 
better still, securing old ones, like the Persian 
lily, which had become so forgotten that visitors 
to his garden wondered where he had got such 
novelties. Then he would rub his hands, smile 
complacently, and decline to answer. 

Priscilla Beaumont was heard later to say that 
if he were to cultivate his vineyard more and 
his garden less, it would be much better for his 
flock; but then she was given to sharp sayings. 


58 


THAT CHILD. 


Her address on this occasion so bewildered bim_, 
and scattered the ideas he had gathered as ap- 
propriate to their first meetings that he vainly 
sought a reply; and^ suspecting that she had 
not made the impression she intended^ she went 
on with fresh emphasis_, ‘'‘'You don^t seem to 
believe me^ Mr. Lisle^ but I always mean what 
I say and say what I mean. I shan^t give you 
a penny unless I am thoroughly satisfied it is 
judiciously spent, — not a penny."” 

‘'‘ Quite so,” assented the vicar, still only half 
awake to the situation, though a vague question 
flitted through his mind as to whether Miss 
Priscilla v/as not a bit of a miser, — a suspicion 
which later he had to repent of, for she proved 
to be in her way quite as liberal as her sister, 
and a great deal more judicious. He had mechani- 
cally obeyed her sign to pass within her gate, and 
now found himself sitting in her drawing-room. 

^‘How just tell me all about your clubs and 
district visitors, and what sort of schools you 
have here, and if they are well supported. I 
daresay there have been a good many changes 
since I was here last,” said Miss Priscilla. 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


59 


A recollection occurred to tlie vicar of having 
heard or read of some one who asked to have 
the British Constitution explained to him in un 
petit quart d^heure. The task now set him — he 
was a nervous man_, especially with ladies, — ap- 
peared little less formidable to his imagination, 
and he regarded his expectant listener with mild 
dismay. She did not speak at all offensively, nor 
with intentional aggression, but in a sharp, matter- 
of-course, business way, as if she had an undoubted 
right to be answered on the spot. The vicar had 
not felt so uncomfortable since he went up for 
his Cambridge examinations. It was like a night- 
mare to sit there with Priscilla fixing him with 
her little black eyes. And there was his new 
gardener waiting for orders, and perhaps acting 
on his own responsibility, and doing, who knew 
what, among the flower-beds. 

I really donT think I can tell you this morn- 
ing,^^ he said, anxiously ; his eyes straying through 
the window to a rose-tree which hung untrained and 
neglected, and his fingers twitched involuntarily 
with desire to take it in hand. Now that we are 
to have the — the pleasure of counting you as a 


THAT CHILD. 


QP 

resident^ you will soon understand all about it 
without any formal explanation. If you want to 
know about that rose — I mean the coal club or the 
clothing charity,, — I am sure my gardener,, — ^Miss 
Murch,, I would say^ and Miss Johnson, who kindly 
act as secretaries, will be most happy to give you 
every information. They are most capable ladies."’^ 

This was a real stroke of diplomacy on the 
vicar^s part. He quite hoped he had shifted the 
burden, and breathed more freely. 

'^Well, ITl ask them; and I daresay I can put 
them on an improved system. The one I intro- 
duced in my nephew^s parish, at Haldon, was 
excellent. ITl see about it, and tell them it is 
with your approval. Of course I always consult 
the clergyman first, whenever I can.^^ 

But, my dear Miss Beaumont,^^ protested the 
vicar, in hasty trepidation. I — I really donT 
recommend you to interfere with either lady, es- 
pecially Miss Murch. She is an admirable person ; 
but if I were to say what flower she most re- 
sembled, I should suggest the Noli me tangere. 

She would certainly take it ill if a new-comer 

Oh, I daresay ; but Fm used to that sort of 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


61 


thing. Besides^ I am not a new-comer. I recol- 
her, — a chit of a girl, — old March’s daughter. He 
had a temper, too, like cayenne pepper. How, 
what number of women attend your mothers’ 
meeting ? ” 

— I am afraid we have none at present,” 
confessed the vicar, guiltily. 

Ho mothers’ meeting ! Ho ? Hor any work 
society for missions ? Hor a provident club ? I’ll 
tell you what it is, Mr. Lisle, you are all just 
where you were sixty years ago : Ashbury wants 
rousing ! ” 

The vicar looked helpless, and made no reply. 

I daresay you don’t like to be told so,” went 
on Miss Priscilla, who, though strong in theory 
as to the respect due to clergymen, was apt to 
forget it in practice. My nephew did not al- 
together like it when I first went to live with 
him ; but, as I used to say to him, it is not my 
way to mince matters, and he soon saw the sense 
of it. It is as plain as a pikestaff that you all want 
rousing and stirring up.” 

She moved her arm vigorously as she spoke, 
as though she were turning round a mass of 


62 


THAT CHILD. 


gruel_, very ^Hliick and slab/^ There was a 
strangled laugh audible from somewhere^ and she 
looked sharply rounds but came to the conclusion 
that her ears had deceived her. 

‘^^Well, perhaps we do/^ admitted the vicar, 
with a rueful smile ; and he took his leave as 
soon as he could. 

Miss Priscilla went with him to the door, still 
talking, and Avice, who had fled under the table 
in the bow-window at their entrance, took the 
opportunity to escape. The vicar was only anxious 
to be gone, but he turned back to say earnestly, 
— ^^And, my dear Miss Beaumont, do, I beg 
of you, look to the Banksia rose on your 
house. The way it has been neglected is really 
painful. 

Miss Priscilla had expected some piece of 
parochial infornaation, and was so taken by sur- 
prise that for a moment she was dumb, then she 
went in-doors with a gesture full of eloquence, 
while the vicar went homeward in comic dis- 
may, which found expression on meeting Simon 
Ashbury, who was going to practice with the 
choir. 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


63 


‘‘ I have been at Miss Priscilla Beaumont^s/^ he 
said_, stopping him^ with a twinkle in his eye and 
a shrug of the shoulders. I fancy we have- got 
Queen Stork instead of Queen Log. Her poor 
sister always had her head in the clouds^ and 
was a Don Quixote in petticoats ; but Priscilla 
comes like a brand-new broom, wanting to sweep 
everything before her.^^ 

^^AhP^ said Simon, with more interest than 
he often showed in his neighbours^ affairs : she^s 
that sort of woman, is she ? 

Thinks we want rousing here,^^ said the vicar. 

It is my belief she would have roused the Seven 
Sleepers themselves.^^ 

hope she will be kind to the child,^^ said 
Simon. 

That little imp ? Oh, aye ! I had forgotten 
her. She will have to mind her P^s and Q^s 
now,^^ said Mr. Lisle; and then Simon went into 
the church, and soon the great notes of the organ 
were rolling like a harmonious storm through the 
building, while the vicar hurried back to his own 
domain just beyond the churchyard, and found 
the new gardener routing out a tuft of blue prim- 


64 


THAT CHILD. 


rose. poor, old-fasliioned sort of thing, not 

fit for a gentleman^s garden,^^ as he observed; 
and he was much surprised and disgusted to find 
that his master was far more disposed to part 
with him than with the blue primrose. 

Miss Priscilla spent half an hour after the vicar 
left her in searching for Chilperic. She did not 
like to be baffled, especially by a child, and she 
was convinced that the kitten was somewhere on 
the premises. 

Avice watched unseen with a beating heart, 
which once almost stood still with fear as Miss 
Priscilla went towards the right direction. She 
failed, however, to discover where the kitten was, 
and Avice ventured presently to visit her treasure, 
who mewed pitifully, and evidently found captivity 
dull and solitude not to his taste. Avice sat for a 
long while struggling with herself, and holding 
Chilperic in her lap. It would be cruel to keep 
him shut up here,^^ she said to herself. ‘‘1 sup- 
pose I must And in the twilight she went 

across to Simon Ashbury's house, and met him 
just going out. He started at the sight of the 
little figure at the dcor. 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


65 


Why, child, is it you ? Come in,^^ he said, 
kindly, ^‘‘come into the dining-room,^^ and turned 
indoors with her. 

It looked like a room very little used ; in fact, 
but for his old servant, who acted as cook and 
housekeeper, and was despotic, he would have had 
his meals in his study overhead, but she would not 
hear of this. 

Master spent a deal too much time there as 
it was,^^ she would declare. 

IVe brought you Chilperic,^^ said Avice ; 
you will have to keep him, since I must not ! 
And there was a strangled sob. 

Why cannot you keep him, my dear ? 

Miss Priscilla says so. She came on Monday. 
She has a straight black dress and a little black 
straw bonnet, and her eyes are black, too, and 
round, like boot-buttons, and she does not like 
cats.'’^ 

That^s a pity,^‘ was Simonas reply to this terse 
description. 

She says he eats her food and drinks her milk, 
and that it is her house ; and I won^t have that 
said of him, poor little thing. IPs a shame, don’t 

F 


66 


THAT CHILD. 


you think so ? And she wants to give him away to 
Mrs. Mason,, the grocer^s wife ; but he is my cat, 
and Pll find him a home myself. Please have him, 
Mr. Ashbury, he is so pretty ! 

She opened the basket and set the kitten on the 
table, where he sat and looked about him with a 
wise air, which greatly tickled Simon, who put on 
his spectacles and contemplated him attentively. 

You donH mean that is the poor creature you 
took out of the pond ? 

But he is,^^ sai'd Avice, proudly. 

How have you got him so clean ? 

I washed him, and after that he washed him- 
self. He likes to be clean; he licks himself all 
over every day, and pulls every bit of his long 
fur through his teeth. See how long it is already ! 

Good gracious, said Simon, meditatively, 
^^how thankful I am I was not created to make 
my ablutions in that way ! What an attitude ! The 
animal must be made of india-rubber,^^ as the 
kitten suddenly assumed one of those positions 
only possible to his species, making a sort of arm- 
chair of himself, and proceeding to prove the 
truth of Avice^s words by assiduously licking his 



He is my cat, and Til find him a home myself/* — P. 66. 








V < 


f 




r 




I 


»r - 


V 


« 



rr 






A NEW DYNASTY. 


67 


■waistcoat, glancing up at Simon between -whiles 
■with an intelligent and inquiring air. 

He will sleep on your bed all night/^ pursued 
Avice ; and not disturb you at all — at least, till 
it is light ; you -won^t mind his playing about then_^ 
he is such a dear little cat ! 

She stooped down and kissed it, and Simon sus- 
pected that tears fell on the soft fur in which she 
hid her face. He was very soft-hearted, and had 
not courage to refuse, although it required almost 
as much to announce to his housekeeper what he 
had consented to do. 

Well,^^ he said, hesitatingly, and Avice at once 
assumed consent. 

Oh, thank you ! she cried ; I would keep 
him hidden at home, only it is so lonely in the loft.. 
Miss Priscilla would never find him there. She 
did try to get up, but Zachary gave her the old 
rotten ladder, and she cracked the third riing, and 
nearly tumbled backward. Zachary is so angry 
because she says he is not worth his salt. I think 
he ought to go, though, really, don^t you ? For be- 
sets snares for the birds in our garden, and Miss 
Philippa would never have let him do that. I 

F 2 


68 


THAT CHILD. 


know wliy he does it : he wants to catch that 
beautiful black-and-yellow bird that came the day 
we found Chilperic. Fve seen it since again all 
right, though. 

Seen it ! cried Simon, all agitation ; seen 
the Oriolus galhula ! My dear child, you don^t 
know how important this is ! ” 

Is it ? said Avice ; well, I have, and I tried 
to make out its name in our Yarrell. I suppose it 
is the golden oriole.^^ 

It is, it is ! So you are fond of birds, my little 
girl ? Why, that^s an awkward taste to combine 
with cats,^^ said Simon merrily. He was as happy 
as a child. Tell me all about your seeing it.^^ 

It was flying about in the shrubbery yesterday, 
ril call you if I see it again. Zachary won^t get 
it; I always find his snares, and he can^t think 
who spoils them, unless it^s ‘ that child,^ as he said 
to Eliza,^^ said Avice, with such exact mimicry of 
the old man that Simon smiled, greatly diverted. 

I expect he will have to go, and cook has given 
warning of herself; she says she doesnTwant some 
one always after her, and Miss Priscilla has given 
Eliza warning because she is so late of a morning. 

O o 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


69 


I wish she would give me warnings too. I hate 
her.^^ 

That^s a pity/^ said Simon, mildly. 

Avice had, perhaps, hoped for sympathy; she 
pouted, and then exclaimed : — 

' She is not one bit like Miss Philippa, Mr. 
Ashbury. Miss Philippa was like this, you know,^^ 
and, although nothing could less resemble the 
large, handsome presence of Philippa Beaumont 
than the slight figure and small, peaky face of 
Avice, yet by the indescribable power of her 
mimicry, Simon felt as if he suddenly saw Miss 
Beaumont before him ; and Miss Priscilla is like 
this, — and orders us all about. Oh dear ! Well, I 
must go now.^^ 

Stay a minute till I have spoken to Mrs. 
Davies,-’^ said Simon, ringing the bell. Oh, 
Davies,^^ he began, in a conciliatory tone, as the 
housekeeper answered it, with a disapproving and 
wondering look at Avice, ^^you were saying there 
were mice in the storeroom, so here is what we 
want, come at the right time.^^ 

The persuasive, almost apologetic tone in which 
he spoke did not soften Mrs. Davies in the 


70 


THAT CHILD. 


least. She looked as severe as her kindly face 
allowed. 

Bless you, sir,’^ said she, with scorn, while 
regarding both Avice and the kitten with marked 
disapproval ; there ain^t no good to be got out 
of them long-haired creatures, — all they think of is 
to drink cream and lick themselves. It stands to 
reason, a cat like that has no time for anything 
else. It^s all very well for them as keeps them for 
pets, but you^ll never get no work out of that 
sort.'" 

Like the cats of Madame Helvetius, who ate 
everything they could get, did nothing but fold 
their paws in their furred robes, and let the house 
get infested with mice. Ah, well, I suppose I 
must have Chilperic as a pet, then," said Simon, 
seizing the loophole offered him, unawares, by Mrs. 
Davies, ^‘^he will be a companion for me. You 
often say I want more company, Davies." 

‘^And you'll be as kind as Mahomet was, won't 
you ? " said Avice. 

Simon burst out laughing, and Mrs. Davies was 
so much pleased to hear it that she relaxed her 
austerity, and said : — 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


71 


I daresay it may be a good thing. A 
cat^s better than no company at all, and I don’t 
say but what this is a pretty one enough if one 
likes the sort, though I don’t care for it myself. 
I’ll get it a little milk.” 

And she went away, while Simon said : — 

can’t promise to cut off my coat-tails as 
Mahomet did his sleeve should Chilperic go to 
sleep on them, you know.” 

Oh, I am sure you would,” said Avice, and 
she ’’—she was Mrs. Davies — won’t be cross to 
Chilperic, will she ? You must not let her, you 
know, even if you are afraid of her.” 

Little imp ! ” muttered Simon to himself ; 
how did she find that out ? ” 

^^And mind Chilperic has breakfast with you 
and supper ; he won’t want more meals than that. 
I’m going now. Thank you for having him. 
Good-bye, my puss.” 

She hid her face again for a minute upon the 
kitten, now sitting erect on the back of an arm- 
chair, looking with alert interest on its new sur- 
roundings. There were tears in her eyes when 
she looked up. 


72 


THAT CHILD. 


Won^t you wait and see Chilperic have his 
milk ? 

Fm going/^ she said^ abruptly, and had 
reached the door before Simon could say : — 

'‘^You must come some time to see how he 
prospers/^ 

Whether she heard or not was not clear — at all 
events, she made no sign. Simon suspected that 
she was hardly able to stifle her sobs. His heart 
went out to the poor child thus deprived of her 
chief pleasure ; and he wondered if Priscilla at all 
guessed how much pain the parting had cost. 

But she did not guess, nor would anything have 
made her comprehend it. She was not wilfully 
unkind, she was only unable to understand how 
Avice felt about the matter. 

Simon was left with the kitten, almost us much 
embarrassed as if it had been a baby. 

hope we shall be able to make it happy, 
Davies,^^ he said, rather nervously, when she 
returned. 

No doubt, sir, so long as no one spoils it,^^ 
answered Davies signiflcantly. 

Ah, to be sure,’^ Simon answered, not without 


A NEW DYNASTY, 


73 


consciousness of guilt. It seems hard the child 
should not be allowed to keep her pet.’^ 

It does^ sir ; but^ from what I hear, Miss 
Priscilla Beaumont will keep a tight hand over 
her household, and a good thing too. That Eliza 
is an idle, flirting hussy, and as for the child, it’s 
a scandal the way she’s been let to run wild. 
Why, I’ve caught her myself more than once late 
at night standing under your window, and when 
I asked what she was about, she snapped her 
fingers at me, and scampered off.” 

Standing under my window ! What could she 
have wanted ? ” 

That’s more than I know, sir ; but it looked 
very queer. She’s not a nice sort of child, but 
that’s no wonder, considering no one knows who 
her parents are, nor anything about her.” 

There spoke Ashbury,” said Simon to himself ; 
adding aloud, You mean she is one of those 
whom God especially trusts to our charity, Davies. 
Do what any of us will, we can never make up to 
her for the loss of what other children take as a 
matter of course — home, and love, and natural 
friends.” 


74 


THAT CHILD. 


And that^s true, too, sir,’^ said Davies, who, 
though she ruled tyrannically enough over her 
gentle master, had a real respect for him. I 
suppose that^s the right way to take it. Come, 
Tib.^^ 

'^His name is Chilperic, I believe,^’ suggested 
Simon. 

Chilperic ! repeated Davies, in a voice of 
wonder and contempt ; that's not a cat's name, 
sir." 

‘^^No, Davies, it was a king's. But as a cat 
may look at a king, surely it may also bear a 
royal name." 

Well, sir, if you choose it to be called so, — 
though how I'm to remember it is more than I 
know. He'll be too fine for my kitchen, I'm 
afraid." 

I suppose he will be comfortable there ? " 
asked Simon, with solicitude. 

I should hope so," Davies answered, with a 
certain offence in her tone ; but I make no doubt 
before a week's over he'll be all over the house." 

And so he was. By the week's end there was 
not a room Chilperic had not investigated, nor a 


A NEW DYNASTY. 


75 


bed lie had not slept on^ do what Mrs. Davies 
would, and his favourite haunt was Simonas writ- 
ing-table, where he invariably sat on whatever 
book or paper was most immediately wanted, nor 
had his master ever the resolution to dislodge 
him. 


76 


THAT CHILD. 


CHAPTER lY. 

MISS PEISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 

'lUNLESS on some great holiday,, such as 
Christmas Day, or on Sundays, or Satur- 
days, when the church was supposed to be swept 
and dusted, it was closed from week’s end to 
week’s end. Now and then, some antiquarian 
visitor, who had heard of its beauty, would come 
and ask for the keys from the clerk, and, if Mr. 
Lisle happened to learn their presence, he would 
go out and hospitably offer refreshment, and show 
them round his garden; for he was as sociable 
as his organist, Simon Ashbury, was the contrary, 
and possibly found life in the quiet country town 
a little dull. There were choir practisiugs, but 
then the door of the church was locked, owing to 
Simon’s nervous dislike to any listener straying 
in at such times ; otherwise, he would often have 
had one in Avice Seaman, who had made several 
attempts to slip in, but never succeeded. 


MISS PEISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. V7 


Muster Ashbury don^t choose to have no one 
here when our choir do practise/^ the old clerk 
would say, in all the aggressive dignity of a little 
brief authority, and shut the door in her face. 

On Saturdays, however, no one was in possession 
but the widow, whom the vicar employed to dust 
and sweep the church, which she did as inefficiently 
as possible ; and Avice occasionally went in and 
looked about her, conscious — in a dim, childish 
way, — of the solemn beauty of the old building, 
empty of human worshippers, yet full of some in- 
visible presence. She went there on the Satur- 
day after Priscilla Beaumont arrived, carrying out 
a purpose which had been in her mind ever since 
that afternoon when she met Simon Ashbury by 
the pond whence Chilperic had been rescued. 

Passing under the great archway, with its bird^s- 
head moulding, she came inside, where Betty 
Brown was slowly flapping away the dust of a 
set of hymn-books, whence it rose only to settle 
immediately somewhere else. There never had 
been pews in Ashbury Church; the old massive 
seats of dark wood with carved ends were many 
centuries old, and the church itself was of most 


78 


THAT CHILD. 


venerable antiquity, as was testified by the square 
Saxon bases of some of the pillars, and the 
low Norman arches which had been raised upon 
them. 

Avice made her way to a side chapel, evidently 
much later than the rest of the building, though 
probably dating from the beginning of the six- 
teenth century. Here was the seat of the Beau- 
mont household, and here had sat the Ashburys 
when they were a household, together with one 
or two other families who had a certain inherited 
right to occupy this chapel, and were very tena- 
cious of it. Miss Kitel, who had a day-school 
and boarding-school — when she could get boarders 
— would remark, with much dignity, that, though 
the fortunes of the Kitels were decayed, nothing 
could rob them of their right to sit in St. Faith’s 
Chapel. 

Philippa Beaumont had taken especial pleasure 
in sitting in this part of the church, not from the 
same point of view as Miss Kitel, but because in 
the wall between the chancel and the chapel was 
one of those curious openings called a ^Heper’s 
squint.” She had explained to Avice that here. 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 79 

in mediaeval times^ had gathered the poor outcasts 
smitten by leprosy^ to hear those holy offices which 
they might not approach more nearly ; but then 
the chapel had not been built^ and they stood in 
the open air. A part of the revenues of St. 
Wulfstan^s had been devoted to their mainten- 
ance, and the spot where the lazar^s house had 
stood was still pointed out. 

Avice took a great interest in the Leper^s 
Squint, but she had not come to look at it now. 
She stood with her eyes fixed on the tablet re- 
cordiug the names and deaths of Simon Ashbury^s 
wife and infant child, and thinking how he had 
looked when she abruptly alluded to them. 

Why, they died twenty years ago,^^ she said to 
herself in wonder, and with a perception altogether 
new to her that in some hearts love and loss are 
always fresh. Twenty years ago ! And Eliza 
says he has never been good for anything since. 

Queer,^ she said ; I donT think he is queer — 
only sorry, and all alone. He is like me, and has 
not got anybody 

She did not know how this thought had shot 
into her mind. While. Philippa lived it had slum- 


80 


THAT CHILD. 


bered ; but, now that it bad been aroused, it would 
never be quite lulled to sleep again. 

I think he makes the organ talk to her when 
he sits and plays at night. Perhaps dead people 
talk music. I suppose they all speak one lan- 
guage there. Oh, I wish I could sing ! 

The wish was so keen as almost to be pain ; 
but Avice had little or no voice. She went out 
of the chapel presently, and made a pilgrimage 
round the church, looking at all the Ashbury 
monuments she could find, and there were many. 
A brass on the floor of the chancel bore the date 
1289, and always attracted the eager attention of 
every antiquary who visited the church, and many 
were the vain attempts to make out the name of 
the artificer, of which only a half-effaced letter or 
two remained, while the words me fecit were 
provokingly clear. Another, in a side aisle, repre- 
sented a lady with joined hands, whose monastic 
kind of costume led Avice to suppose her a nun ; 
but probably the dress had been assumed as an 
act of piety. Against a pillar was an inscription 
ro ^^Simou Ashbury, Master of ye Hospitalle,^^ 
1525, and this title of Master of the Hospital 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


81 


seemed so often connected with the name of 
Ashbury that it was evidently almost hereditary. 
Avice^ awakened to interest in all that concerned 
them, noted it curiously, and tried, without much 
success, to recall what Philippa Beaumont had 
told her one day about the hospital, which had 
lost its chief revenues at the Reformation, having 
recovered them through the donation of lands and 
revenues by a Sir Edwin Scudamore (the Scuda- 
mores were great people in that part of the 
country, and claimed descent from Owen Glendwr), 
only to lose them again in some mysterious way 
immediately in the rising for Monmouth, Avice 
thought she was told, and an Ashbury was some- 
how mixed up with it. Avice wished she could 
put it all together. 

Miss Philippa would have told me all about it,^^ 
she thought, with an impatient sigh. 

Just as she made her last discovery, she saw 
Miss Priscilla come into the church, and look all 
round with her sharp, scrutinizing glance, which 
became the more decidedly disapproving the more 
she looked. 

^^Dust everywhere ! she said, audibly; and 


G 


82 


THAT CHILD. 


Avice saw lier go aud speak to tlie widow, who 
was standing curtseying, broom in hand, with a 
scared air. 

She spoke low, because she was in a church, but 
none the less emphaticallj^ Avice could very well 
guess the tenor of her speech, even if her gestures 
had not explained it unmistakably. Presently she 
took the broom and began sweeping vigorously, 
looking towards the widow, who, aghast and 
amazed, dropped a curtsey each time their eyes 
met. Avice would fain have stepped away unseen, 
but Priscilla was between her and the only un- 
locked door, and soon caught sight of her as she 
dodged behind a pillar. 

What are you doing here, child ? she ex- 
claimed. 

Looking at the monuments,^^ Avice answered, 
perplexing her much more by saying the exact 
truth than she could have done by any evasion. 

Monuments ! — nonsense ! What interest can 
the monuments have for you ? Speak truth, little 
girl.” 

It certainly was hard to be accused of falsehood 
simply because she had spoken absolute truth. 


MISS PBISCILLA BOUSES ASHBUBY. 


83 


It’s absurd to suppose you came to look at 
the monuments/’ repeated Priscilla ; it can’t be 
that.” 

Aren’t they put up to be looked at ? ” asked 
Avice. 

Of course they are/’ said Priscilla, too intent 
on making out the real explanation of Avice’s 
presence to perceive what she admitted. 

^^That was what I thought,” said Avice, 
as meekly as before — too meekly Priscilla 
began to see, but she could hardly find fault 
with it. 

The girl looked so much younger than she really 
was, that, while impertinence sometimes sounded 
doubly impertinent from her lips, at other times 
it might pass for childish simplicity. 

'^At all events, you will go home now,” said 
Priscilla. I do not allow you to run all over 
Ashbury without leave. Tell Mrs. Grauntlett I 
wish her to show you how to darn. You must 
learn to mend your own stockings, and not expect 
others to do it for you. It is not exactly likely 
you will have a maid of your own when you grow 
np. Make haste ! ” 

G 2 


84 


THAT CHILD. 


Avice went quickly away, with the hostile 
feeling which every such encounter with Miss 
Priscilla aroused^ hot in her heart. At this period^ 
and^ indeed^ much later^ a little tenderness would 
have melted her^ though, in any case, she would 
have been difficult to manage ; but tenderness had 
been left out in the composition of Priscilla Beau- 
mont, good woman though she truly was. Her 
chief experience of girls had been in a home where 
those received were of an unruly, low-minded class, 
from bad homes ; and she judged Avice as if she 
needs must have the same tendencies. Everything 
unexplained which the child did or said roused 
her suspicion, and she was quite discomposed by 
finding her in the church. She privately talked 
it over with Gauntlett on her return home. 
Gauntlett did not take nearly so grave a view 
of it. 

'^Dear me, ma^am,^^ she said, daresay she 
only strayed in for something to do — she is an odd 
child, and likes to astonish one. Pve known her 
do all sorts of things just to see how one would 
take it.^^ 

She does not seem to have much heart,^^ 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


85 


observed Priscilla. I spoke to ber to-day of all 
she owed ray sister, and she showed no feeling 
at alL^^ 

^‘^ThaPs what Eliza and cook say/’ answered 
Ganntlett. One would think anybody belonging 
to dear Miss Philippa would miss her.^’ 

This was meant as a hit quite as much at 
Priscilla as at Avice, for she considered that here 
too very little feeling had been shown as to 
Philippa’s death. But, the very day she was 
buried, there was the child playing pranks all over 
the place.” 

Yes, it showed a sad want of heart,” said 
Priscilla, and the belief that Avice had no feeling 
which she then acquired actuated her view of her 
for years afterwards. Conscious as she was of her 
own regret, and of the sad feeling that she was left 
alone of all her family, it never occurred to her 
that she too betrayed it so little that most people 
said of her what she did of Avice. 

And then there is that cat,” she went on, it 
is most uncomfortable that it should have dis- 
appeared as it has. You are sure no one is helping 
her to keep it hidden ? Cook declares that she has 


86 


THAT CHILD. 


not given tlie child any milk or scraps ; yet, if it 
is on the premises, ifc certainly must eat. I don^t 
like it at all. You do not think she can have 
drowned it ? 

Drowned the kitten, ma^am ? 

Well, I have known children capable of 
doing it; there was a girl in St, Helenas Home, 
where I was matron for some months while there 
was a difficulty in filling the post, who had 
a delight in cruelty — a positive delight — little 
wretch ! and another who tried to burn down the 
house.^^ 

“ But Miss Avice .... I don^t stand up for 
her, for I never have liked her, and I always said 
she had no more heart than a stone ; but she^s not 
that sort, ma^am ; she is a deal too fond of animals 
to hurt them. Why, she has even tamed a slow- 
worm — nasty thing ! — till it will lap milk from a 
spoon, Eliza tells me; I have not seen it, for I 
would not go near the creature for anything you 
could give me, but it^s somewhere in the Wilder- 
ness. You may be sure she would never harm a 
living thing.^^ 

I am not so sure, Gauntlett. She may have 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 87 

preferred killing the cat to submitting to my 
orders, and I shall always have my suspicions 
unless the animal is found."’^ 

Gauntlett pursed up her thin lips and said no 
more. She was an old family servant, and knew 
that it was waste of time to argue with Miss 
Priscilla; but the sense of her injustice caused a 
temporary revulsion in favour of Avice in her 
mind. She did not at all guess how much many 
little things which she herself had said had con- 
tributed to Priscilla’s strong prejudice against 
Avice Seaman. 

As they sat at tea she broached the subject. 
believe you have killed that kitten,” she said all at 
once, fixing her eyes on Avice, who really did not 
at first understand her meaning. 

“ Killed what kitten ? ” she asked. 

How can you pretend not to understand ? The 
kitten you call yours, which you behaved so ill 
about.” 

Avice stared in uncomprehending wonder. 

Killed it how ? ” she asked. 

How should 1 know ? Drowned it, I suppose.’^ 

Avice’s answer was a burst of irrepressible- 


88 


THAT CHILD. 


laughter. Do you mean you think I have killed 
Chilperic ? ” 

There is nothing to laugh about that I can 
see/^said Miss Priscilla^ angrily. Yes^ I do mean 
that I think you killed Chilperic, or whatever its 
name was. If you cannot behave properly — for 
the child’s laughter was becoming hysterical with 
mingled amusement and anger — ^‘^you had better 
leave the room.” 

Avice took her at her word, and was gone with 
a rush and a bang of the door, which gave Priscilla 
good cause for displeasure, especially as she could 
hear her still laughing in the passage. ^^How 

poor Philippa could ” she thought j but the 

girl has had great disadvantages,” she added, more 
tolerantly, ^^and all one can do is to try to make 
up for them.” 

Avice recovered composure in the open air, but 
then such indignation arose that she felt as if there 
were hardly anything she could not do or say to 
Miss Priscilla. A hundred speeches occurred to 
her now which she could have made, and she 
pictured herself doing so, of course always crushing 
ber antagonist ; and equally, of course, had Priscilla 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


89 


appeared just then_, she would not have dared to 
make one of them. She went wandering about 
the garden, and watched the wild bees at work 
in the rhododendrons long after the hive ones had 
gone home, and paid a visit to her slow-worm in 
the grassy, shady spot known as the Wilderness. 
She had brought it home one day, and, luckily, 
old Zachary had not found Clementina,^^ as she 
called it, or he would have put an end to it, as 
belonging to the race of snakes. It hissed, and 
put out a long, slender tongue at her, but in a 
friendly way. The clock struck eight, and she 
knew she must go to bed. This rule, which 
Priscilla had at once laid down, was a wise one, 
but it seemed cruel to the girl, accustomed to sit 
up as late as she pleased. She lingered so long 
that Eliza had to fetch her, and Avice could not 
resist the temptation of hiding behind trees and 
summer-houses for a good half-hour. Eliza, who 
had a friend waiting in the kitchen, was out of 
humour. 

‘^I^m not going to help you undress,^’ she 
said, when at last she captured her ; so you 
needn^t expect it. Miss Priscilla says them as 


90 


THAT CHILD. 


will have to earn their bread should learn to bo 
independent^ and that yon^d better begin/^ It 
was a rude version of Priscilla^s view, and Avice 
fired up. 

I never asked you to help me ; I don^t want 
you or anybody ; but that is not the way to speak 
to me, and you know it.^^ 

Oh, indeed,^^ said Eliza, you are very high 
and mighty for a dependent, miss,^^ and she tossed 
her head and went indoors. She was in a bad 
temper, and glad to revenge herself on the child 
who had treated her insolently in Philippa^s time. 
Had Avice been as young or as babyish as they 
thought her, the bolt would not have struck so 
home, but she was neither, and had been growing 
rapidly in mind this last week. Until Philippa 
died she had lived with a child^s careless ac- 
quiescence in its surroundings, and Philippa’s 
large generous nature neither rufiled her pride nor 
suggested that after all she was only a waif and 
stray, without homo or family, or claim on her 
protector. Never regarding her in this light, 
Philippa unconsciously imposed her own tone on 
all about her. The sense that she was a penniless 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


91 


foundling was forced on her just as she was out- 
growing childhood and beginning to think^ and 
the shock and clash were great_, and seemed likely 
to warp her nature. Then again, after the free- 
dom accorded by Philippa, and running entirely 
wild for good part of a year, the tight reign of 
Priscilla already galled her inexpressibly. She 
stood at her window, looking out on the garden^ 
flooded with pale, cold moonlight, which made the 
great trees and their shadows black by contrast, 
and such a sense of bitterness and desolation 
filled her heart that she threw herself down on the 
floor and sobbed in helpless despair and rebellion. 
It was the first time, but by no means the last_, 
that A vice broke down in miserable tears under 
the thought that she was only a lost atom, tossed 
about with no place of her own in the world ; but 
perhaps the pain never again was quite so unbear- 
able, and she only gave way thus when quite alone. 

Nothing will make that child cry,-’^ Priscilla 
would say, with a sort of impatience, as time went 
on, and she had more experience of her; and, 
indeed, under reproach or reproof, Avice would 
become perfectly hard and indifferent. She has 


92 


THAT CHILD. 


no feeling/^ the maids declared^ recollecting against 
her that apparent carelessness of Philippa^s loss, 
which they had read in her noisy pranks, and, 
indeed, how could they tell it was her revolt 
against the ache in her heart and choking in her 
throat which made her behave thus ? And now, 
when at last her tears ceased, her desire at once 
was to do something which involved bodily exer- 
tion, and so work off her heartache; but she 
hurried into bed, dressed as she was, when she 
heard Priscilla^s step. Priscilla opened the door, 
saw all still, and a head on the pillow, and went 
away, and Avice jumped up and stood again at 
the window. She had been very much excited 
both by the scene at tea and by Eliza^s words, 
and she felt as if she must run and jump, and 
get from under a roof. She opened the window 
and looked out. The boughs of a great beech- 
tree almost touched it. 

Pll jump into them,^^ she thought, and stood 
measuring the distance ; if I do break my neck, 
I don^t care.’^ 

But, to her surprise and disgust, she found, 
with all her reckless daring, she had not quite 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


93 


nerve enough for the leap. Still, the desire to 
get out and feel free possessed her. 

By the trellis, of course, and the westeria,^^ 
she cried, bending out. To her cat-like agility 
it was no great effort to descend thus, and in a 
few minutes she stood panting a little and tri- 
umphant in the moonlit garden. She had often 
been out of doors much later, when Philippa had 
had a fancy for a night walk, or a little astronomy, 
but never alone ; the clock had struck ten, and 
there was a sense of mystery in the silence, the 
deep shadows, the sway and rustle of the trees, 
and the far-off sky, strewn with stars paled by 
the moonbeams. It did not seem the same place 
she knew so well by day, and the house was all 
shut up, and not a light visible on the garden 
side. Something made her start by springing 
up upon her, but a sharp yelp of joy told that 
it was Cupid. With the companionship of a 
live creature the sense of mingled fear and awe 
vanished. Come along, Cupid,^^ she cried, and 
raced away over the lawn, in and out of the 
shadows, with Cupid wild with delight at this 
unexpected game of play, until she was breathless 


94 


THAT CHILD. 


and had to stand still, but she was more than 
ever disinclined to go indoors.’ What can we 
do now, Cupid said she; know, we^ll go 
and see if the pigs are awake 

There were four or five pigs as well as a sow 
with a litter in the styes, and Avice often fed 
them and scratched their backs with a stick, and 
helped the lad who worked under Zachary to 
feed them. Cupid was ready to follow her to 
the farmyard, which was beyond the kitchen- 
garden. The peacock, who had erratic ways of 
roosting, chanced to be sleeping on a low wall, 
and Avice and Cupid scared him by bursting in, 
and he flew down in a paroxysm of frigbt, and 
ran with long strides, shrieking and sweeping his 
tail before Cupid, who barked, and ran and barked, 
while Avice clapped her hands and laughed, and. 
then, seized by a new idea, flung open the stye- 
doors, and called the pigs with the summons 
which; to their ears, meant a meal. One after 
another came bustling out, black and bristly or 
dirty white, with the peculiar, undressed look 
which a white pig has in the moonlight. Now, 
Cupid ! cried Avice, and dog and girl ran at 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


95 


tlie innocent animals, and sent them wildly career- 
ing round the yard, remonstrating with wild 
squeals, with which mingled the rapturous bark- 
ing of Cupid and the screams of the peacock, 
while, from his kennel. Watch, the great house- 
dog, bayed furiously. The uproar reached the 
house, and presently, above it all, came the voice 
of Miss Priscilla, advancing at the head of the 
maids, and calling to know what was the 
matter. Naturally, she got no reply. Avice 
caught up Cupid and ran into a shed, whence 
a hen, who had decided to hatch a brood sur- 
reptitiously, rushed flying out with a wild 
cackle, pursued by Cupid, who had struggled out 
of Avice^s arms, to add her share to the con- 
fusion. 

‘^‘'What in the world is the meaning of all this?’' 
Miss Priscilla was heard demanding amid the din. 

The pigs seem to have gone mad. Who let 
them out ? ” 

Pm sure I don’t know, ma’am,” Avice heard 
a maid answer ; pigs is very queer things, and 
there’s no saying what they won’t do.” 

^^Well, they can’t have let one another out, I 


96 


THAT CHILD. 


suppose/' said Miss Priscilla, seizing adroitly on 
Cupid as lie darted by ; here, drive them back 
into their styes. 

And, suiting the action to the word, she stood 
forth in the path of a black pig who came running 
by, and who was so little impressed by her 
attempt that he charged full at her, and Avice, 
choking with amusement, saw Miss Priscilla 
only just stagger aside in time to avoid being 
carried away seated on the back of the largest of 
her pigs. f 

Avice left them to deal with the rebels as best 
they could ; she slipped away unnoticed, and was 
returning to the house when the notes of Simon 
Ashbury's organ came across the way. He had 
a small one in his study, and often played late 
at night, as she knew very well. She ran down 
the drive and stood listening. How soft and 
sweet the sounds were, as if they asked and 
brought down heavenly peace, and shed it abroad 
into the moonlight. Her mood changed, and 
she went softly indoors and to bed, to lie 
awake and think of the solitary player. He is 
talking to Lucy Ashbury,^' she thought, and 


MISS PRISCILLA ROUSES ASHBURY. 


97 


lay still witli the notes in her ears until she fell 
asleep. 

The next day Ashbury was full of rumours about 
the uproar, which had made night hideous and 
filled the servants with wonder. They suspected 
Avice, but Priscilla snubbed such suggestions by 
the answer that she had locked the hall- door after 
seeing the child “ in bed and asleep,^-’ as she said 
with unconscious inaccuracy, and she did not 
ask her a question about it. Every one looked 
curiously at Priscilla sitting in the Beaumont 
scat that Sunday morning, with Avice beside 
her, but no one ventured to stop and question 
her, for she had not been in Ashbury for years, 
not since her elder sister’s death, and seemed 
almost a stranger there, and, moreover, had the 
dignity of a recent bereavement around her. All 
sorts of strange reports, however, were abroad, 
which gained by every repetition. Ashbury had 
so few events to chronicle that it made the very 
most of all which occurred ; and Miss Murch and 
Mrs. Lowe, the solicitor’s wife, and one or two 
more, happening to meet Avice the next day, 
sent out on errands by Priscilla, who liked to 


n 


08 


THAT CHILD. 


make every one useful, examined her closely on 
what had occurred. Among* them was the vicar, 
who was as curious as women are said to be, 
and Priscilla appeared so peculiar and alarming 
a creature to him that everything concerning her 
was important. 

But what was it all, my little girl he asked, 
stopping her. 

I suppose it was Miss Priscilla rousing Ash- 
bury,^^ Avice answered, glancing up at him from 
under eyelashes which, although very light, were 
so thick as to make a golden brown shade for 
her grey eyes, and the reply sent the vicar into 
spasms of silent laughter. 

He could not resist calling on Simon to report 
it to him. Simon smiled too, but a little sadly. 

^^Poor little girl, she has a saucy tongue but 
a kind heart, and she has done me a great service,^' 
he said, dreamily. 

A great service repeated the vicar, in 
wonder and inquir3^ 

^^Yes, I ascertained, through her, — but that 
would have no interest for you, Mr. Lisle,^^ Simon 
answered, recollecting how badly the vicar had 


MISS FBISGILLA BOUSES ASHBUBY. 99 

behaved in the matter of the Oriohts galbuluSj 
and he would say no more. 

So the vicar had to devour his curiosity, which 
was greatly excited, and take the consequences of 
his want of interest in the golden oriole. 



ir 


o 


100 


THAT CHILD, 


CHAFER V. 

AVICE PAYS A VISIT. 

"|~T was not a liappy time which now began for 
Avice Seaman. Priscilla honestly wanted to 
do her duty by her, and bring her up to be a 
useful woman, able to earn her own living, for 
she did not feel at all bound to do more for 
her, and she was not aware how much her dislike 
of the child and annoyance at having her as an 
inmate of her house affected her manner to her. 
It really was a trial to her ; she liked very young 
children, who had no over-decided ways and wills 
to clash with hers ; but, as to elder ones, her main 
idea was to keep them in order. But she did 
not mean to send Avice away, for almost the one 
strong wish expressed by Philippa was that Avice 
Seaman should always have a home at Ashbury. 
She had not said it with the thought that Priscilla 
would be Avice’s guardian, but her sister felt in 
honour bound to keep the child with her, though 


AVIGE PAYS A VISIT. 


101 


reluctantly enough. She meant her to be a gover- 
ness some day, ^^for I shall not live for ever, I 
suppose,^^ she said; ^^and then where will she be 
It seemed as if it would be so easy to leave Avice 
enough money to keep her from need, but Priscilla 
looked on her fortune as belonging after her to 
her nephew. She tried to put Avice through a 
steady course of instruction, but she was too 
hasty-tempered to be able to teach a wayward, 
puzzle-headed girl, and Avice had the strongest re- 
pugnance to being taught by her, and all Priscilla’s 
efforts to instruct and exact obedience were baffled 
by a dullness half put on, half real. For punish- 
ment she seemed to care little, nor could she be 
punished perpetually. She fell into a kind of in- 
difference, hostile and sullen when with Priscilla, 
but when once out of her way, was chiefly anxious 
to forget all about her and amuse herself. Pris- 
cilla was more annoyed and provoked by her 
failure than she liked to admit; and she grew 
sharp and imperious, and was apt to make those 
Sunday lessons, which Avice especially hated, very 
personal. Avice was oue of those children who 
shrink almost angrily from any forcing of reli- 


THAT CHILD. 


ao2 

rgion upon them. She had learned reverence from 
Philippa^ and her behaviour at prayers and at 
■church was faultless even in the critical eyes of 
Priscilla, but to have the Bible and catechism ex- 
plained and brought to bear on her by Priscilla 
put her into the naughtiest of her moods. 

^^That child will come to no good/^ Priscilla 
would say, at the end of her patience, which, in- 
deed, was an article apt to wear thin, and Avice 
had a certain triumph in the prediction ; but when 
Priscilla would add, your conduct is a disgrace 
not only to j^ourself but to my poor sister,^^ then 
she would have to use all her strength to keep 
tears from bursting forth, though she never felt in 
the least repentant. 

There were times when she could forget her 
troubles, and run and play, and shout as of old, 
but they grew few and fewer. PriscilWs grasp 
was strong, and her yoke heavy, although she 
meant it all for Avice^s good. Some days were 
worse than others ; Priscilla was often out of the 
house for hours together, probably as glad to be 
rid of Avice, who was really a great trouble and 
worry to her, as Avice was to be free of her. 


AVICE PAYS A VISIT. 


103 


and Priscilla had already found full occupation in 
Ashbury. She was in and out of the cottages 
perpetually j she scolded mothers who kept their 
daughters at home gloving instead of sending 
them to school^ and she criticised the way in 
which they were taught when they went there; 
and she got some speaking as plain as her 
own from the parish doctor^ whom she exaspe- 
rated by making up and administering drugs to 
the poor on her own responsibility^ but she went 
on her way unmoved. The vicar got no peace 
until he ordered a new set of hymn-books for the 
congregation, and she made him chuckle with 
amusement by a characteristic donation of a set 
of new brushes and brooms for the church, 
whither she went every Saturday to superintend 
and even lend a hand in dusting and sweeping. 
As for the clothing and coal clubs, she aggravated 
the secretaries of these to such a degree that they 
resigned in dudgeon, and somehow, no one quite 
knew how, Priscilla installed herself in their places, 
with promptness which left no time for any one to 
breathe. 

There was a storm in Ashbury, but she was so 


104 


THAT CHILD. 


impervious to hints or black looks^ and so en- 
tirely convinced that she was doing what was right 
and good^ that she always gained her pointy and 
as she carried out all that she undertook well and 
thoroughly, there was no valid excuse for com- 
plaint; and then she was a Beaumont, and far 
the most important and energetic person in the 
place, so that no one cared to offer any strenuous 
opposition, such as it would have required to with- 
stand Priscilla. She would say she knew that she 
was not popular, — indeed, she professed to hold a 
wish to be popular a sign of weakness. I am 
not one of your amiable people whom everybody 
likes,^^ she would say, and, to do her justice, she 
certainly was not. But, in point of fact, she did 
not believe herself unpopular, and would have 
been both surprised and hurt had she ever real- 
ised it. In time her singleness of aim and honesty 
were sure to win respect, and even a certain 
liking; but to one person she constantly grew 
more alarming. This was not the vicar, — who 
was, on the whole, amused by her, — but Simon 
Ashbury. Having somehow learned that the re- 
venues of the hospital had been lost to it while 


AVICE PAYS A VISIT. 


105 


one of liis ancestors was its Master, slie took it 
into her head that the Ashburys were bound to 
refund the income, and could not see Simon with- 
out broaching the subject, totally unable to under- 
stand how sensitive he was upon it, until he grew 
to have a morbid horror of meeting her, and when 
he went out would glance apprehensively around 
lest she should be approaching, and, if he saw her, 
would dart down sideways or into the first house 
where he could take refuge. The vicar was infi- 
nitely entertained by the alarm which the most 
distant glimpse of Miss PriscilWs little black 
bonnet awakened in him, and when he met him 
found great amusement in introducing her name ; 
but he had no idea what suffering she inflicted 
on Simon, who almost shut himself up in his 
house unless actually forced to go abroad. He 
had Priscilla Beaumont on the nerves, and she, 
meanwhile, roused Ashbury, and went straight on 
as if she had been a battering-ram. 

But, after a while, she owned that she could do 
nothing with Avice. The daily struggle to teach 
her was too wearisome, and she determined to 
send her as a day scholar to Miss Kitel. That she 


106 


THAT CHILD. 


had not had her long before, — or, at all events, 
during those months when Avice was running wild 
during the absence of Philippa, — had been a great 
surprise and vexation to Miss Kitel. 

I cannot understand it, Mrs. Lowe,^^ she would 
say, plaintively; so bad for the child, and my 
school so pleasant and contiguous."’^ 

It would have been a feather in her cap to have 
had a scholar from Miss Beaumont^s family, she 
thought. And now she was to have her.’ Avice 
thought anything would be better than being 
taught by Miss Priscilla, and did not mind at all 
being transferred in semi- disgrace, and Miss Kitel 
welcomed her eagerly ; but, after a while, a new 
fold came on the brow of the schoolmistress when 
Avice Seaman was named, and Avice herself did 
not look as if she prospered at Miss Kitel’s semi- 
nary. Simon Ashbury, who got into a way of 
watching for her as she went by every day to 
school, noticed the change. He had the deepest 
pity for any one who was in Miss Priscilla^ s hands, 
and the dull, weary look on the girl’s face sad- 
dened him. He hoped she would come and in- 
quire for Chilperic, but she never did. After 


AVICE PAYS A VISIT. 


107 


observing her for some weeks, he felt as if he 
must hear from her how she fared, and, in spite 
of his dread of Priscilla, appearing round some 
corner, he went out one afternoon and met Avice 
returning slowly home, as if she did not care how 
long it took her to get there. 

Well, my dear, have you no message for Chil- 
peric ? He has grown a terrible tyrant, and even 
rules over Davies herself.^^ 

I am so glad.^^ 

And how do you like going to school ? and in 
what class are you ? 

Avice^s face gloomed over ; it had cleared when 
he spoke of Chilperic. 

don^t like it at all, and I^m in the lowest 
class, with Lilias Bell and Eosie Lowe and a lot 
more babies.^^ 

In the lowest class ? why, how is that ? 

Because I am a dunce, I suppose. Miss Kitel 
says so.'’^ 

"'I don't think that can be it," said Simon, 
looking at her meditatively. 

dare say it is, and Pm sure I don't mind. 
There's nobody to care, so it does not matter. I'm 


108 


THAT CHILD. 


not going to take any pains just to please Miss 
Kitel or Miss Priscilla/^ 

^^Dear, dear ! this is very sad/^ said Simon. 

I don^t think it is particularly sad. If I had 
somebody bothering whether I got good marks 
like Milly Wood or Dolly Johnson^ who are always 
talking about their mothers, and how pleased they 
will be about this and that, I should have to 
drudge like them, and it would be a great plague, 
so I^m better off as I am, with nobody to care.'’^ 
She spoke with hard defiance, but there was a 
tremble of the lips which did not escape Simon. 

That child is older than they fancy,^^ he 
thought. I think I care, my dear,’’ he said 
aloud. 

You ! but why ? ” she asked, with incredulous 
astonishment that any one should concern himself 
about it, which went to Simon’s heart. 

For several reasons, little one. I cannot think 
that the girl who defended Chilperic so bravely has 

nothing in her worth caring about, and then 

Well, neither of us has many belongings, and I 
dare say we both feel lonely, in our different 
ways.” 


AVICE FAYS A VISIT. 


109 


But you. can do just as you like/^ 

“Just so/^ he answered sadly. “It is a long 
time since I had any one to care^ as you say, what 
happened to me for good or bad, and I know how 
it feels, my dear.^^ 

“ Do you ? ’’ said Avice, staring at him, and then, 
as if something in the gentle, sad face, old before 
its time, had touched her to the quick, she ex- 
claimed, “ Look here, Mr. Ashbury, I hate it all, 
the girls and all; I hear them talking of their 
homes and their own people ; even Maggie Lee 
has an aunt who brings her up and thinks no one 
ever was like the stupid little puss, so that she 
never seems to mind having no father or mother ; 
and at the end of term their relations will come 
and see the prizes given, and all that stupid 
nonsense, and those who have done badly will at 
least know some one is sorry; but what shall I 
have? What^s the use of doing well if I could? 
and I dare say I could if I tried.'-' 

“ My poor little girl ! said Simon, as she 
dashed some tears angrily away. 

“ I don^t want to be pitied, she said, in her 


former tone. 


110 


THAT CHILD. 


Ifc does not help one much, I know/^ he 
answered sadly. 

^^No, it does not help me, I suppose,’^ said 
Avice, in an odd, doubtful way, but it is kind^ 
all the same. I don^t think I should mind so 
much if I knew who my people were and what my 
name was, but now I don’t seem to have any one, 
and the girls all know it. I heard them telling 
Faith Kitel about me : she’s a niece of Miss Kitel’s, 
just come from Devonshire to live with her, and 
teach the little ones, — and me,” she added, con- 
temptuously. 

But your name is Seaman, — you know that.” 

No, it is not, any more than Avice, really and 
truly.” 

Seaman is not your name ? What makes you 
fancy that, my dear ? ” asked Simon, much sur- 
prised. 

Because I know it is not. Miss Philippa 
always said so, and I never could make her under- 
stand it was not, so I gave up trying. Mamma 
called me a name rather like that, I think, only she 
said it more like See-monne,” said Avice, with the 
painful, straining look she had worn when she 


A VICE PAYS A VISIT. 


Ill 


began to recover from her long illness. “ I get 
hold of little bits about it all_, and then they seem 
to slip away and get misty, and though I try so 
hard to remember, I am afraid it^s all going away 
out of my head. I can^t recollect mammals face 
now, nor papa^s.^^ 

What do you remember about coming here ? 
asked Simon, as he walked beside her ; and Mrs. 
Lowe, coming home from the draper^s, and Miss 
Murch, looking out of her window, both won- 
dered what Mr. Ashbury and ^^that child 
could be saying to one another, but neither 
he nor Avice noticed the observation they were 
attracting. 

I just recollect papa^s kissing me, and her 
crying, and then he went away, and he had on a 
uniform, I think, and we put our things into boxes. 
I remember that, because I put our little dog into 
one to pack him up, and somebody would not let 
me, so I went into a passion. And then we went 
for a journey, or two journeys : I can^t tell any 
more.^^ 

Simon had listened with keen interest. He 
could easily suppose that the railway accident, 


112 


THAT CHILD. 


and tlie long consequent illness_, and the bewilder- 
ment of finding herself among total strangers, 
speaking a tongue almost or quite unknown, had 
entirely confused the little mind. Had there been 
any one at hand who understood the language 
familiar to her, and sympathetic with children, she 
probably might have gradually pieced together her 
broken recollections, and revealed much of her 
history, but Philippa was content with her own 
theory and unapt to seize slight indications, and 
the opportunity went by. 

You do not recollect anything about your 
family, then ? he asked. Did they speak no 
English ? 

don^t think so. I am not English — Ihn 
French. Some day I shall go back to France 
and find out my own people. 

He looked at her with fresh compassion, feeling 
how hopeless was such a quest, but would not 
say so. 

Well, then, you must try to be a sensible girl 
and a well-mannered one,” he suggested, ^‘^that 
they may not be ashamed of you if ever you 
find them.” 


A VICE PAYS A VISIT. 


113 


I never thouglit of that/^ said Avice, startled. 

That^s true.^^ 

She had, for some inexplicable reason, been 
rather proud of being ill-mannered and rude, but 
for a moment she saw herself as these possible 
relations would see her. 

Would you really care if I tried to be good 
and learned more ? ” she added. 

I should. It would give me pleasure. Tell 
me, is there no lesson at all you have any liking 
for?^^ 

Not the way they teach. Just listen, Mr. 
Ashbury : for history they have got ^ Mrs. Mark- 
ham ^ for the big girls and ^ Little Arthur * for 
the younger ones. ^ Little Arthur ! ^ It would 
be impossible to render the accent of scorn with 
which she uttered the name of that innocent little 
book. ^^Why, I used to read Hume and Hollinshed 
and some of Froissart with Miss Philippa.’’ 

Simon laughed outright. 

Well, I dare say it is rather poor food, my 
dear, but if they do not know that you have 
learned any history ” 

Oh, I told them, but I don’t think Miss Kitel 

I 


114 


THAT CHILD. 


knew what Hollinshed was^ and she said Hume 
was not meant for children. And we have to 
learn Pinnock^s ^ Catechism of Koman History ^ 
and ^ Child^s Gruide.^ However^ I rather like that ; 
I did not know what pin-money really was till 
I saw it there,, nor that the Persians wore gloves ; 
that^s not so bad.^^ 

Well, besides ^ Child^s Guide ? ^ 

Oh, I don^t know — grammar, and tables, and 
dates, and poetry. Mr. Ashbury, you would hate 
poetry if you heard those children saying it over, 
and over, and over.^^ 

I dare say I should. Do you think your 
teacher enjoys it ? 

Faith Kitel ? I don^t know ; iPs her business, 
you know.'’^ 

True. Ho doubt that makes it agreeable to 
ker.^^ 

His smile prevented Avice from taking affront 
at the irony in his tone, and conscience apparently 
pricked her, for she said, as if on the defensive, 
^‘^How, Mr. Ashbury, if you had to say stupid 
verses, or hear beautiful ones, — thaPs worse, I 
> think, — stumbled over a dozen times, you would 


A VICE FAYS A VISIT. 


115 


have to get some fan out of it or run away. Miss 
Daws never found out why all the girls laughed 
when I said my poetry_, and it was such fun to 
make mistakes and set them off ; once I had a 
line about the burghers of Carlisle^ and I called 
them burglars, and she never noticed and could 
not think why the girls giggled ; but Faith catches 
me up directly, and tells another to go on, and 
looks as grave and stupid as possible.^^ 

How old is Miss Faith ? 

About sixteen, I think. She has a lot of 
brothers and sisters at home, and they are as 
poor as beggars,^^ said Avice, as if she had herself 
at least a thousand a year. ^ Faith ! ^ What a 
stupid name ! 

Do you think so ? It is an old name in the 
Kitel family. One of them built the chapel of 
St. Faith, where you sit on Sundays 

Is that why she is called so ? I never knew 
that. Then it is a real old name. Do you mean 
some one belonging to Miss Kitel built that 
chapel ? 

Certainly ; Edmund Kitel, of KiteFs Crag, in 
the beginning of Henry YII.^s reign. 

1 2 


116 


THAT CHILD. 


Avice stood still for a moment, amazed. Her 
view of her schoolmistress suddenly altered. 

Then she is a lady ! she exclaimed. 

Undoubtedly. Why should you doubt it ? 

Surely not because she has to work for a living, 
child 

I think Faith has a nice face, and she 

does know something,^^ said Avice, meditatively. 

She never gets cross, though she will be 
minded. I tried one day all I could to put her 
out of temper, but she only looked grave, and 

set me something to do at home. I wish I had 

an old name.^^ 

Avice was apt to bring everything back to 
herself, but Simon, though he had perceived it, 
was too much touched by the longing to feel 
herself connected with some one or somethingr 
to be severe. 

There’s one thing I won’t learn, anyhow,” 
she said, after a pause, and that’s music.” 

What ! you dislike music ! ” cried Simon, with 
hurt indignation. 

Dislike it ! I dare say I should learn it if I 
did. I love it, Mr. Ashbury ! I did so wish 


A VICE PAYS A VISIT. 


117 


Miss Philippa could hav^e taught me, but she did 
not know one note from another, and never had 
the old piano tuned, but I used to make up things 
that came into my head and try to play on it. 
But the way they strum and thump and play out 
of time just drives me mad. I canH bear it. I 
should not do my lessons so badly if there were 
not practising going on. Oh, do tell me what you 
played last Sunday evening as we were going out 
of church. Miss Priscilla would not stay and 
listen, and I did so want to stop.^^ 

Simon hummed a few notes. 

Yes, yes, that was it. Oh, do play it again 
next Sunday.^^ 

I am afraid I can’t do that,” said Simon, with 
an odd recollection of his predecessor, who had 
about three voluntaries in his repertoire^ and used 
them alternately, but if you have time and will 
come into my house — here we are — you can pay 
Chilperic a little visit, and I will play it to you. 
Or, will it keep you too long ? ” 

Oh, no. If Miss Priscilla misses me, she will 
onlv think I have an imposition and am kept in. 
It will not matter.” 


118 


THAT CHILD. 


Simon shook his head^ but while Miss Priscilla 
had the greatest faith in a good talking to^ to an 
offender^ he had little belief in words, and now 
fancied that music would speak more effectively 
to this little rebel than anything that he could 
say ; and when she had flown at Chilperic, curled 
up in Simonas own arm-chair, and rejoiced over 
his sleek and handsome looks, Simon played for 
her the lovely air from Mendelssohn^s ^^Elijah,^^ 
Oh, rest in the Lord/^ She had ofiered to blow 
the bellows, so as to set his foot free for the 
pedals, but he declined, using the mechanical 
means he was accustomed to blow with when 
alone ; and by degrees she evidently forgot all but 
the music, standing quite still, with a look of ab- 
sorbed attention on her face, which seemed to still 
and soften it until, as he glanced at her, he could 
hardly recognise the hard, sullen child of every- 
day life. 

‘ And He will give thee — will give thee thy 
hearths desire,^ she repeated, as he slowly raised 
his long, slender fingers from the key-board, and 
the sounds died softly away. Do you think He 
will if I do wait patiently ? I can wait, you know. 


AVICE A VISIT. 


111 ^ 


if He will do it. Oli, I hope He will let me know 
about my own people. Perhaps papa is alive still. 
Ob^ I wish I knew ! Do you think He will want 
me to wait very long ? 

He knows the right time to give us what we 
want — and long for/^ Simon said, and she noticed 
with quick comprehension that his eyes glistened. 
'^You and I must both wait His good time, my 
dear.^^ 

^^Well, 1^11 wait, then,^^ she said, with a long 
sigh, but I hope it will soon be the right time, 
don^t you ? 

She turned away from the organ and looked 
around her. 

What a lot of books and papers ! she said, 
with great interest, as her eye travelled down the 
long, low room. And a telescope. Miss Philippa 
told me the names of some of the stars. I should 
like to see the moon and Jupiter through it. 
What is this thing framed on the wall ? IPs old— 
1440, the date says. Who made it ? 

That is a star chart, a wonderful piece of work 
for the time when it was drawn up. It was 
^ made,^ as you say, by my ancestor, Koger Bolin-- 


120 


THAT CHILD. 


broke; my mother was descended from his sister. 
Did you ever hear of him in history ? 

Avice stood with knitted brow. Miss Priscilla 
would have thought her sullen, but she was only 
concentrating her thoughts in an effort to re- 
member. He almost regretted that he had in- 
duced her to make it, guessing readily that 
the brain, which had had such a shock four 
years before, still worked with difficulty. Koger 
Bolinbroke he began, but she made an im- 

patient gesture. Wait ! she cried brusquely, 
and then suddenly a look of delight and relief 
flashed over her face. 

I know ! we read about him once. It was 
Roger Bolinbroke who helped to make the waxen 
figure of King Henry VI., which Lady Eleanor 
Cobham meant to waste before a fire that the 
poor king might die.^^ 

“ That was what her enemies and his said,^^ 
answered Simon, with some heat, and men who 
were ignorant and prejudiced believed it.^^ 

But was he not a magician ? 

'^No more than poor Marjory Jordan, who 
was burned as a witch under the same charge. 


A VICE PAYS A VISIT. 


121 


lie was a learned astronomer and herbalist^ and 
knew more than his neighbours — that was his 
crime/’ 

And so are you/’ said Avice. 

Why, what makes you think that ? I believe 
I have an inherited love of star-gazing, and I 
dabble in botany ; but what do you know about 
it?” 

Why I saw you last summer looking all about 
Eed Earl Gilbert’s dyke for plants. I don’t think 
you saw us, but you were talking to yourself about 
the Banewort, and how it is said to have sprung 
from Danish blood.” 

'‘^W^as I?” said Simon, blushing like a girl, 
that’s a bad habit, but I believe I do talk to 
myself — or to Chilperic. And really I believe he 
begins to understand me, for he answers me by 
the most singular little cries, quite unlike what he 
would address to another cat, I fancy ; and he 
takes the greatest interest in what I do — sits and 
stares at me until I feel quite nervous, comes on 
my manuscript, and sometimes actually takes the 
pen out of my hand when he thinks I have written 
enough. I suspect him of wishing to write his 


122 


THAT CHILD. 


own autobiograpliy. There ! said Simon^ with a 
start and look of wonder at Avice^ as Chilperic 
just then raised a sleepy head and began to purr 
in a low bass voice. I had no idea how much 
intelligence there was in cats.^^ 

. If yon treat them like ourselves, they behave 
just like reasonable people,^^ said Avice; ^^it's 
only stupid persons who know nothing about them 
that think they have no senses and are all alike ; 
they^re as different as you and Miss Priscilla. And 
I like a cat because you can’t onaLe her do any- 
thing. She’ll do it if she chooses, but not be- 
cause you beat her or scold her.” Simon smiled 
at this characteristic utterance. Pussies are dear 
things ! ” and she stooped and stroked Chilperic, 
who gave a faint little mew of remonstrance at 
being roused. 

Yes, they are very feminine,” said Simon, 
thoughtfully. I^m afraid they are a little selfish, 
but it is so graceful and gentle that one rather likes 
it. Chilperic never fails to take the best place, 
whether by the window, or on a cushion, or my 
table, but he purrs so cheerfully and looks so con- 
vinced that I must wish him to have it, that it is 


AVICE PAYS A VISIT. 


12a 


quite a pleasure to let him do it. I find him very 
amusing.^^ 

Miss Priscilla thinks I drowned him.^^ 

What ! 

Yes, she thinks I killed him because I would 
not let her give him away.^^ 

Monstrous ! Why have you not undeceived 
her ? 

I don^t mean to do it. If she chooses to think 
so she may.^^ 

My dear, you really ought to tell her the fact,’^ 
urged Simon. I cannot conceive how she could 
ever suppose it, but at all events she ought to be 
told how it is.^"’ 

I shan^t,” answered Avice, with the look which 
Priscilla knew so well. 

It^s a pity,^^ said Simon, and he said no more. 

I don^t care what she thinks of me, Mr. 
Ashbury 

So it seems, my dear.^^ 

There was a pause. Avice had no intention of 
yielding, but she felt vexed and uncomfortable. 

I ought to go/’ she said ; good-bye, Mr. 
Ashbury; good-bye, my pretty puss.-’^ 


124 


THAT CHILD, 


I shall expect another visit soon/^ said Simon, 
and she turned an astonished look on him. Evi- 
dently this was not what she had expected. 

^^1^11 come, then, some day,^^ she said; ^‘^good- 
bye.^^ 


THAT CHILD. 


125 


CHAPTER YI. 

MISS KITEL TAKES A WALK. 

^^^^FTER Avice had left him, it struck Simon 
that he ought not to encourage her to visit 
him without the permission of Miss Priscilla, and 
the thought filled him with uneasy compunction. 
He felt like a child who has done wrong and 
has not courage to own it ; for, as to requesting 
Priscilla’s leave, he knew he could not bring him- 
self to do it. To give her, voluntarily, an oppor- 
tunity of launching forth on the subject of St. 
Wulfstan’s Hospital was more than could be ex- 
pected of him. He sighed wearily and turned 
to his writing-table, and, unlocking one of the 
drawers with a key which he always carried 
attached to his watch-chain, he took out a heap 
of closely -written papers, and began to read them 
through. Those drawers where his manuscripts 
were locked up contained the labour and solace 
of the last twenty years. It was his darling wish 


126 


THAT CHILD. 


to write a local history of Ashbury and the dis- 
trict round it^ telling all the long tale of its his- 
torical associations, its natural history, its legends, 
the story of all the old families connected with it, 
and everything which could be related of its noble 
ehurch, and the market-hall, and all other note- 
worthy buildings in the place. Such a work would 
be costly to publish, he knew, especially if, as he 
intended, it were illustrated ; and he meant to 
employ some good artist, who should sketch the 
various parts of the church and the old houses, 
with careful accuracy. It will cost a fortune,” 
the vicar exclaimed, when Simon once told him 
his plan. I know it,” was Simonas answer ; 

but I have no one to come after me.” He was 
aware that no publisher would be likely to under- 
take a work so expensive and little likely to be 
widely bought, and he meant to devote his own 
money to it, but meanwhile he was too tender- 
hearted to save much, few as his expenses were — 
some one always seemed to need whatever he 
had to spare, — and he began to think the o-pus 
magnum” as the vicar called it, would have to be 
published after his death. He was sorry for this. 


MISS KITE! TAKES A WALK. 


127 


butj after all, there was still a great deal to be 
done to the work before it satisfied him, and he 
went on adding and altering and arranging — one 
day dejected because some link in a tradition 
eluded him — another, elate at discovering traces 
of French architects' work in the church which 
had hitherto escaped all eyes, — and another, going 
off for a ten-miles' walk without a moment's con- 
sideration of distance or weather, in search of 
some old portrait which he had heard of as still 
existing, and hoped to have engraved for his 
History of Ashbury." If not a happy man, he 
had learned to be contented, thanks to this en- 
grossing interest; but the all-pervading Priscilla 
had unconsciously got a finger into this pie, as well 
as so many others, and spoiled his peace of mind 
and pleasure cruelly. It had always been a sore 
point with him that an undoubted cloud rested on 
the memory of his ancestor — that Simon Ashbury, 
who, when nobody else in the neighbourhood 
cared a pin whether Monmouth succeeded or failed, 
must needs support him with tongue and pen, 
even if he did not actually join him, as some said 
he did. Others declared that he had fled abroad, 


128 


THAT CHILD. 


taking with liim the title-deeds of lands lately 
made over to the hospital to renew its fallen for- 
tunes, and a large sum of money besides. There 
was no certainty as to his fate, though a rumour 
prevailed, and was believed by many, that he had 
been arrested after Sedgmoor, and taken to 
London, where he died of small-pox. In any case, 
he returned no more, and the heir of that Scuda- 
more who had given the lands, highly disapprov- 
ing of his cousin^s liberality, brought a lawsuit, 
against which no defence was set up, since title- 
deeds and deed of gift were alike missing, and the 
new Sir John Scudamore was in high favour at 
Court. St. Wulf stands Hospital sank more and 
more into poverty, and now its revenues barely 
supported those few old men whom Simon would 
wince to see, as they came out of their almshouse 
or sat in the shelter of the market-hall. ^^That 
Sir Owen Scudamore should have died just when 
he did, instead of living six months longer, and 
clearing my ancestor ! he would mutter, with 
positive indignation, very little deserved probably 
by Sir Owen, who would have lived if he could, 
and had no choice about it. 


MISS XITEL TAKES A WALK. 120 

Simon did not for a moment admit that his 
ancestor had gone off with deeds or money, nor 
that he was, as Priscilla maintained, in any way 
bound to refund the missing sum, but it was not a 
pleasant page to write in his history; and the more 
he reflected on it, the less he liked it, and the more 
he tried to discover some trace of what had really 
happened ; but it was as little to be made out as 
the rest of that inscription of which only me 
fecit remained. That vexed his soul, too, and 
had cost him long hours of thought and worry; 
but it was not such a thorn as this uncomfortable 
story about St. Wulfstan^s, with Priscilla to keep 
it fresh and stinging. He sat before his writing- 
table and could not write for thinking of it, and 
of Avice Seaman, and what he ought to do if she 
came again. 

But she did not seem inclined to come. She 
was shy and proud, and waited till she should 
meet him again, and was hurt that it did not 
occur, never guessing Simonas dilemma, nor that 
he watched to see her go by every day on the 
other side of the street, and wondered how she 
was faring. His interest in Avice strengthened. 


K 


130 


THAT CHILD. 


and helped him to shake off the brooding melan- 
choly and indifference which had crept over him. 
He thought of her when he played a voluntary in 
churchy and would turn his telescope on the Beau- 
mont gardens to try to see her there ; and for her 
sake he took some pains to get a sight of Faith 
Kitelj and decided with satisfaction that she looked 
a kind^ sensible girl, not likely to be hard on the 
child. His observations of Avice herself were less 
satisfactory : he thought she looked out of heart, 
and he was right. It troubled him a good deal, 
and he would reflect on it while he stroked Chil- 
peric, which he had a way of doing whenever he 
was thinking about Avice. It was no doubt un- 
reasonable, but he could not help feeling as if he 
were responsible for her. His was a nature gentle, 
reserved, and solitary, and he shrank from openly 
interfering in others^ business ; but at last he felt 
that he must do something. Saturday was a half- 
holiday, and Miss Kitel always profited by it to 
settle her weekly bills. Every one's comings and 
goings were pefectly well known to every one else 
in Ashbury, and Simon, little as he troubled him- 
self about his neighbours, was perfectly well aware 


MISS KITEL TAKES A WALK. i;u 

of this habit of Miss Kitebs. He took advantage 
of it to encounter her^ and^ as they had the same 
grocer^ went out to pay his weekly bill just at the 
time she was accustomed to sally forth with her 
little pile of account-books and her purse, which 
always had a flat and empty look, rather patheti- 
cally suggestive of the struggles the poor woman 
had to make in order to make both ends meet. 
Lap over they never could : she would have felt 
rich if they had. 

Simon managed so well that he was about to 
pay his bill when she entered, and he had only 
just settled what cheese he would have — with an 
inward conviction that it was the very last he 
ought to have chosen, and that Mrs. Davies would 
not easily forgive him for meddling with her pro- 
vince, — when Miss Kitel prepared to leave the 
shop. She had seen Simon and bowed to him, for 
of course they were acquainted; both had been 
born in Ashbury, and had been neighbours all 
their lives, though there was so little intimacy 
between them that when Simon walked beside her 
down the street, towards the next shop whither 
she was bound. Miss Kitel felt rather fluttered, and 

K 2 


132 


THAT CHILD. 


wondered wliat people would say if they noticed 
Mr. Ashbury accompanying her ; for Simon was 
too shy and retiring often to be seen abroad^ nor 
did he ever offer his company to any one^ unless 
the vicar, and Miss Kitel was always nervously 
afraid of remarks. schoolmistress has to be 

so careful, and set such an unimpeachable example 
of propriety,^^ she would say, with a sigh, as if 
sometimes she found it a little oppressive to act 
up to the necessary standard. She was a thin, 
whitey-brown, tired-looking woman, with a depre- 
cating, anxious face, as if in constant fear of 
offending some one, and perhaps losing a pupil. 

1 see one of your scholars pass my house every 
day,^^ said Simon. Little Miss Seaman.^^ 

^‘^Yes,^^ said Miss Kitel, with a sort of gasp, 
she has come to me this quarter.^^ 

I suppose she has had very little regular in- 
struction since poor Miss Beaumont left Ashbury,^ ^ 
said Simon. 

Instruction ! said Miss Kitel, lifting her pale- 
blue eyes to heaven. I do assure you, Mr. 
Ashbury, I never had so ignorant a child entrusted 
to me in my whole life — never. She knows abso- 


MISS XITEL TAKES A WALK. 


133 


lutely notHiig — nothing whatever. How a pupil 
of Miss Philippa Beaumont^ whom we all know 
was a wonderful woman, can be so deplorably 
ignorant I am unable to understand. 

Perhaps she had not the art of teachiiig. It 
is a special gift, and all ladies, however clever, do 
not possess it.-’^ 

^^It is very kind of you to say so,^^ answered 
Miss Kitel, apparently thinking that Simon in- 
tended a personal compliment, of which he was 
quite guiltless ; but a pupil of Miss BeaumonPs ! 
— and the worst of it is that the child has 
picked up all sorts of useless knowledge, which 
she brings out all of a sudden, making one feel as 
if one had been shot, if you can understand me ; 
and then her impertinence ! — ^really, with all my 
experience of girls, I may truly say I never saw 
anything to equal it.^^ 

Simon could believe it. 

I am sure, if you had not had to do with them, 
you would never believe what girls are,^"’ continued 
the poor schoolmistress ; but Avice Seaman is 
beyond anything I ever knew. Of course one 
cannot expect that a child who comes no one can 


134 


THAT CHILD. 


say from where, and whose parents are unknown, 
and who may even be a foreigner, should be what 
one would desire and expect j but still, with the 
advantages she has had, one might have hoped for 
something less — less — I really don^t know what 
word to use. I sometimes think she will be the 
death of me with her audacity. I caught her 
mimicking Miss Daws yesterday, and sending all 
the class into fits of giggling ; she is in Miss 
Daws^s class for French, and to-day I really 
believe, Mr. Ashbury, she was mimicking me ! 

You don^t say so 1 said Simon, with praise- 
worthy gravity. What does Miss Priscilla Beau- 
mont say to all this ? 

Oh, my dear Mr. Ashbury, that is the worst of 
it ! I felt I must really write and complain, 
though it is a great risk to complain of a pupil, — 
anything is usually better ; but still. Miss Beaumont 
not being a parent, I thought I might venture, 
but I had the — the pleasure of a visit from her this 
afternoon, and — and it really was trying. You see 
she is such a very clear-headed and superior 
person, that it is a little overpowering. I would 
not for the world say anything disrespectful,^^ the 


MISS KITEL TAKES A WALK. 


135 


poor woman hastened to add, looking nervously 
around, ^^and I dare say all she said was quite 
true, but to be flatly told one has not kept up with 
the times and the march of intellect, and that all 
the books used in the school are obsolete, is — is a 
little trying. And if Miss Beaumont should say so 
to other people, I cannot tell what the consequences 
might be, — I really cannot.^^ 

Tears of nervousness and anxiety started to her 
faded eyes, and Simon was very sorry for her. 

It is all true, I dare say,” she repeated, wiping 
them, ^^and Fm quite ashamed to be so upset; 
I^m sure you will not mention anything I have 
said, Mr. Ashbury. Perhaps I ought not to have 
mentioned it, but I was so — so disturbed that I am 
afraid I cried this afternoon, and that, as she 
justly observed, was weak-minded. I cannot tell 
you how ashamed I was; but when one has only 
one^s own exertions to depend on, and others to 
help, as most of us have, and does not feel as 
young as one used — girls are so wearing! and 
times so hard, — it is a little depressing to be 
told — but of course, as she remarked, it is 
always best to know the truth, and I am sure she 


136 


THAT CHILD. 


7iieaiit it kindly; she said herself she only spoke 
for my good, though at the time, I confess, I 
thought her a little wanting in consideration/^ 

I should think Miss Priscilla Beaumont had 
about as much consideration for other people’s 
feelings as an express train,” said Simon, with more 
acrimony than he had ever shown in his life before. 
He, too, had his private grievance, and it rankled. 

Oh, Mr. Ashbury, indeed I never meant to 
imply — indeed, I only wish we were all as capable 
and excellent as she is ; but perhaps a lady who is 
so well off and well born — though for that matter 
the Kitels are an older family in the county than 
her own, as you know better than any one ; but I 
dare say she would find it hard to understand how 
low-spirited and anxious people in my position get. 
You know, if a new school were to be set up — 
people are terribly fond of novelty; and I do 
assure you, since Miss Beaumont suggested it 
might be desirable for the place, I have been so 
uneasy that I hardly know what I am about ! And 
if that child persists in defying all my efforts to 
teach her, I really dare not think what the con- 
sequences may be ! ” 


MISS XITEL TAKES A WALK. 


137 


Does she not improve at all ? asked Simon, 
disappointed. 

Well, perhaps a little. Faith, — my niece, Mr. 
Ashbury, my brother's eldest girl, who has just 
come to live with me, — she says there is improve- 
ment, and that possibly she may be moved to 
another class after the midsummer holidays. It is 
really disgraceful a girl of eleven should be in the 
lowest class with little Eosie and Lilias and the 
Prices.^^ 

^^At least eleven. I should not be surprised if 
she were thirteen.'’^ 

No, really, Mr. Ashbury ? From what you 
have seen of her ? And should you say she was a 
lady by birth ? 

Certainly,^^ said Simon, decisively. Look at 
her slender wrists and hands, and the make of the 
child. If she were prettily dressed and looked 
happy, she would be another child. 

Eeally ! You think so ? Simon was a great 
authority in Ashbury. I should like to know who 
she can be. It is most singular that her mother, 
or whatever the person with her was, should have 
been coming to Ashbury — a foreigner ! 


138 


THAT CHILD. 


Coming to Ashbury ! 

Why^ you must have heard her ticket was 
for Ashbury. I thought every one knew that.^^ 

I hear so little.'’^ 

Ah_, very true ; you have such absorbing 
occupation in your great work.^^ All sorts of 
rumours were current about Simonas book, but he 
was shy and sensitive on the subject, and always 
shrank from any questions about it. Just now he 
was too much interested in what had been said 
before to think about it. 

To Ashbury ! And a foreigner, you say ? 
French, too ! 

He seemed speaking to himself. 

Yes, we all thought it most strange. So un- 
fortunate that the child should have forgotten all 
about her early history ! 

Ah, the child,^^ he said, with a start ; yes, 
yes. Has she no taste for anything, then ? ” 

There does not seem a thing she takes to,^^ 
answered Miss Kitel, despairingly.^^ 

Hot music,^^ said Simon, with a smile. 

^^My dear Mr. Ashbury, she has no taste for 
music. When Miss Daws plays a piece to her. 


MISS KITEL TAKES A WALK. 


139 


and her execution^ as you must know^ is most 
remarkable — Simon^ who had heard Miss Daws 
perform at some occasional Christmas party which 
he could not avoid, involuntarily shuddered. ^^Well, 
when Miss Daws plays, she actually pretends not 
to enjoy — in fact, I might say, to dislike it ! now 
really, after that ! ” 

Possibly she might appreciate the organ more 
than the piano. I have known such cases,^^ 
said Simon, with strong inward sympathy for 
Avice. should like to try the experi- 

ment.-’^ 

You, Mr. Ashbury ! 

Yes ; I should like to give her lessons, if it 
could be arraDged."*^ 

I am sure — at least, I think I may say I am 
sure that Miss Beaumont — any one ought to feel 
honoured by such an offer,^^ said Miss Kitel, in 
great surprise; and Simon appeared to feel that 
some explanation was necessary, for he coloured a 
little, and said, It is an odd fancy, but I believe 
I have odd fancies, and I should be glad of the 
interest. Perhaps Miss Daws would not object to 
pass her pupil over to me.^^ 


140 


THAT CHILD, 


Object ! repeated Miss Kitel^ again uplifting 
her eyes expressively. But, indeed, my dear sir, 
you do not guess what you undertake. It is like 
trying to instruct a wave of the sea, or — or, I don^t 
know what ! 

I should like to try. Do you think you could 
arrange it with Miss Beaumont ? ” he asked, 
quaking inwardly, as he thought of the possible 
necessity of coming in contact with her. 

Oh, certainly ; that is, I can lay your most 
valuable offer before her,^^ replied Miss Kitel, much 
flattered, as she recollected how little any one 
could count - on influencing Priscilla, and how 
formidable it would be either to correspond with 
or interview her; and her nervousness increased 
tenfold when she saw that, in the interest of their 
conversation, she had long passed her bakePs, and 
walked almost out of Market Street and into the 
country. She looked round in great trepidation, 
but was a little relieved to see no acquaintance 
near. ^‘ 1 — I don^t know how I came to walk on 
in this way,^^ she said, blushing quite rosily. I 
had no idea — really I must turn back. We are 
close to your own house, Mr. Ashbury, and T must 


MISS XITEL TAKES A WALK. 


141 


say good-morning. I am sure you will not mention 
— If I can make Miss Beaumont see tlie thing as 
I do^ and I think there can be no question — 
Dear me, there is Dr. Medland ! — he will wonder 
— and is that not some one coming down the 
Beaumont drive ? I really must go at once. Good- 
morning, Mr. Ashbury.^^ 

And she hurried off all in a flutter. 

Poor woman ! said Simon, with a hasty 
glance towards the gate opposite, but it was only 
a child with a basket on her arm who was coming 
out, and, relieved that it was not Priscilla, he went 
leisurely indoors. 


142 


THAT CHILD, 


CHAPTER VII. 

MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 

~|~N one respect Miss Priscilla was like Per own 
pigs : if anybody wanted her to go in one 
direction_, sbe was tolerably sure to turn in another. 
It proved so with regard to Avice^s music-lessons. 
In answer to Miss KitePs carefully-written letter 
on the subject^ she received a three-cornered note^ 
which shocked her even before she opened it by 
its want of ceremony. On plain paper_, too^^^ 
as she said_, recollecting what inch-broad borders 
of black she herself had used whenever she lost 
a near relation. But the shock which the outside 
of the note gave her was nothing to what its 
contents caused. Had she been accustomed to 
quote Shakespeare, she would certainly have ex- 
claimed with Bassanio, ^^Here are a few of the 
unpleasant^st words that ever blotted paper/^ for 
Miss Priscilla wrote briefly that she was much 
obliged by Mr. Ashbury^s offer, but she had other 
plans for Avice, who probably would not return 


MISS PBISCILLA KEEPS HEP PROMISE. 143 


to Miss Kitel after Midsummer. Miss Kitel sat 
aghast. Her dismay was so great that it actually 
drove her to go forth and waylay Simon Ashbury 
in the churchyard^ after a choir practising, a step 
which nothing less urgent could have induced her 
to take. 

Mr. Ashbury ! he heard a thin, tremulous 
voice say, as he came out of church, expelled as 
usual by the clerk at the last moment. I — >1 am 
sure I have no right, but, as a few days ago we 
had a little conversation on the subject, and you 
would not mind — I really am so ^distressed and 
harassed ” 

Simon recognised the anxious face of Miss Kitel, 
standing in the porch, with a brown veil fluttering 
helplessly in the wind. 

Anything I can do,^^ he said very kindly. 

No one ever appealed to Simon in vain for 
sympathy, even if he could give no other help. 

I am sure you are very good — every one 
knows how ready Mr. Ashbury always is — began 
Miss Kitel, in her nervous, unfinished sentences, 

and if you would just read this ” 

Simon sat down on a bench in the porch, taking 


144 


THAT CHILD. 


the three-cornered note held out to him^ and Miss 
Kitel sat down on the bench opposite. 

^^What do you think of it?^^ she asked, anxiously, 
am truly sorry/^ answered Simon, slowly, 
thinking, it must be owned, more of Avice than 
of any one else, but Miss Kitel took it to herself. 

'Mt strikes you in the same way, then.? I feared 
it would. Of course, it is possible that Miss Beau- 
mont may only intend to send the girl to another 
school, and, though that would be a disadvantage 
to me, after only having her for a half-quarter, 
still, it would not be the same thing as if — but 
my fear is she may import some one to set up 
a rival establishment. I have feared it ever since 
that day she called, and it would be ruin to me,^^ 
said the poor woman, her voice breaking, while 
she put up a thin hand in a thread glove to her 
eyes. 

Simon could not but know that the Ashbury 
young ladies would be much benefited by a better 
school than Miss Kiteks ; but he could not say 
that, and his kind heart led him to feel much 
more strongly the misfortune to her than the 
advantage to them. 


MISS FItlSCILLA KEEPS HEP PROMISE. 145 


I cannot tliink your old pupils would desert 
you/^ lie said ; and there are hardly enough 
young ladies,, I should think^ for two schools/^ 

That is just it. Neither of us could live 
by them if they were divided, but I feel sure I 
should lose some. The March girls and the little 
Johnsons -^would stay, I think, for, you know, 
there was a good deal of annoyance about Miss 
Beaumont and the coal and clothing clubs, and 
the families took it up rather warmly, so that 
any one patronised by her — but I donT know 
about the Coopers and Groves ; their mothers 
have sometimes hinted — you see, it is not as if 
I could afford to have an experienced teacher 
under me, or a French governess, and there are 
so many new fashions come in, and then all these 
examinations. My niece. Faith, tells me that 
grammar is taught in quite a new way, though, 
for my part, I think our generation spoke at least 
as good grammar as the young people do now- 
adays ; blit she declares that articles are now 
adjectives, and verbs are called weak and strong, 
and, as for the present style of parsing, which 
she tried to make me comprehend, I do assure 


L 


lie 


THAT CHILD. 


you it makes my head go round. And the same 
with arithmetic. 

She looked so distressed and bewildered that 
Simon cast earnestly about for something com- 
forting to say. 

I am sure Miss Faith is likely to be a help to 
you,” he suggested. - 

‘^^Yes, indeed. She is such a good girl, Mr. 
Ashbury, the eldest of ten, and her mother^s right 
handj but, as I need not tell you, a curate with 
that family, and an income under two hundred a 
year^ finds it difficult, and I thought it would be a 
little help to them.” Simon suspected that out of 
her slender means she had always done her utmost 
to help her whole family, but the Kitels had an 
especial gift for going down hill, no one could 
make out why. But she ought to have ad- 
vantages,” said Miss Kitel, sighing, and admitting 
almost unconsciously that her school left something 
to be desired. She studies alone whenever she 
has a spare half-hour, and seems to delight in 
teaching. It is a most important and honourable 
profession, but if I myself had had my choice — 
however, we must take what offers itself, and I 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 147 


hope I have always tried my utmost to do my 
duty/^ 

There was not much that Simon could say, 
but his real sympathy cheered poor Miss Kitel, 
and she looked rather less troubled when they 
parted. 

Her fears proved well founded. Miss Priscilla 
made no secret of the fact that she intended 
to import a capable schoolmistress into Ashbury, 
who was to revolutionise the style of teaching 
hitherto thought suflScient, — nay, her very name 
became known, and all Ashbury talked about this 
Miss Owen, and the consequences to Miss Kitel. 
There were a few families where a wish for better 
■education than Ashbury offered had sprung up, 
but even among them considerable hesitation was 
felt as to deserting their townswoman ; they felt it 
would be a kind of apostasy, and that, if they 
did, they could never look her in the face, which, 
as they must necessarily meet constantly, would be 
decidedly unpleasant. 

Still, Priscilla’s strong views, strongly expressed, 
as to the need of good teaching, and the real 
truth in them had weight, and Miss Kitel’s face 


148 


THAT CIIILIK 


grew thinner and more troubled every da}’'^ and her 
spirits sank to the lowest ebb when^ during the 
Midsummer holidays, Miss Owen arrived as a 
guest of Priscilla, who had met her formerly, 
and knew her capacity. She was a dark-eyed, 
observant-looking woman, with sense and spirit; 
Avice felt as if she were looked through and 
through by her, but she rather liked the notion of 
being taught by Miss Owen. 

Priscilla had her plan of campaign all ready, and 
explained it fully to her visitor on the very first 
night they were together. But here she met with 
a sudden check which greatly disconcerted her. 
After listening in silence until she paused, her 
guest said, quietly : 

Do I understand, then, that there is no opening 
in Ashbury except through pupils at present at- 
tending Miss KitePs school ? 

^^Yes, but many would be certain to leave her 
and come to you,^^ said Priscilla, eagerly ; it is a 
disgrace to the town to have nothing better than 
such an old-fashioned, incapable sort of thing 
as Miss KitePs school. When once we have 
established a better state of things, we must have 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 149 


a local centre here. I am very willing to he 
secretary^ and undertake all the organisation, and 
your pupils will of course go in for the junior 
and senior examinations. I should think some 
might be found for the higher local. My idea is 
that to-morrow you should call with me on the 

families where there are children ” 

Excuse me/^ said Miss Owen, decidedly ; I • 
had not understood the real state of things. I 
should be very glad to begin a school here if 
it seemed likely to succeed, but as for touting for 
pupils, and drawing them away from one already 
ostablished, it is out of the question.'’^ 

And nothing Priscilla could say would shake her 
view of it. She went away two days later, and 
Miss Priscilla had to confess, with mortification, 
that she was hoisted by her own petard. She had 
not been without much right and reason on her 
side, and yet she was made to feel in the wrong. 
Miss Owen had accomplished something very like 
u. miracle: she had made Priscilla Beaumont see 
two sides of a question. 

It was a long while, however, before poor Miss 
Kitel breathed freely. She could not know that 


150 


THAT CHILD. 


her dreaded rival had voluntarily quitted the field, 
and it was not until the holidays were nearly over 
that she regained confidence. Coming out of her 
house, she found Priscilla coming up the steps, 
and started back with a complete loss of that 
deportment which she studied to maintain as an 
example to her pupils. 

I was just coming to call on you/^ Priscilla 
said ; I have decided to send Avice Seaman back 
next term. I had had other plans, but they are- 
altered. And I suppose she may as well have 
those music-lessons from Mr. Ashbury. It is not 
likely she has any turn for music, for I don^t 
count the way she strums and twiddles on my 
piano music.^^ Priscilla was as devoid of ear as 
her sister had been. '^But she may as well have 
what advantages she can here.^^ 

Such a way of taking Mr. Ashbury^s most 
kind offer ! observed Miss Kitel, later, but she 
did not say so to Miss Priscilla ; and, though she 
assumed as stiff and reserved an air as she dared, 
it was lost on the impervious visitor. She would 
have liked not a little to refuse to take Avice 
back, but she could not afford it, and she had 


MISS PBISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 151 


liad many otlier affronts to swallow in her time, 
poor woman ! 

Priscilla was astonished by the start of joy 
with which Avice heard that she was to learn 
music from Simon Ashbury. She almost thought 
her delight was put on. 

Well, I hope you will profit by a good oppor- 
tunity,^^ she said ; you will find it duller work 
than you expect, but you will never get your 
living if you cannot stand a little drudgery.^^ 

Avice knew that it would be no drudgery to 
her, and all her little world seemed flooded with 
rosy light. To learn of Simon, whose playing 
was such a joy to her that it had sometimes 
drawn her of an evening all across the way to 
stand and listen under his window for an hour; 
to spend time constantly in his house, away from 
Miss Priscilla and with Chilperic, was bliss such 
as seemed to make all her life a new thing. She 
had been bitterly disappointed when Miss Owen 
went away with no intent, as her sharp wits 
readily divined, of returning, and the thought 
of going back to the treadmill of lessons with 
Miss Kitel had been like a stone round her neck. 


152 


THAT CHILD. 


only less unwelcome than being at home with 
Priscilla. 

Priscilla left Miss Kitel to arrange matters with 
Simon, who, instead of taking offence at this un- 
ceremonious way of accepting his proposal, be- 
haved like an angel,^^ as Miss Kitel declared, 
well pleased that, after all, his efforts had met 
with success. He thought a good deal over how 
he should set about teaching Avice, and she, on 
her part, was so taken up with the prospect of 
her first lesson, that she could hardly attend to 
anything else. The joy it gave her seemed to 
lend quite a new expression to her face. Faith 
Kitel noticed it on the first morning that the 
school reassembled, and the kind girl was glad 
of it. She stopped Avice as she was collecting 
her books before going away in the afternoon. 

‘^^Wait one minute,’^ she said, and Avice had 
grown so used to rebuke, that she turned round 
with the look that such a prospect always called 
upon her face, though she knew she had done 
nothing in particular to deserve it. They were 
alone in the schoolroom; the other pupils had 
dispersed. It felt hot and close. The windows 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 153 


looked on tlie street,, and Miss Kitel would not 
have them opened in lesson-time. 

I wanted to ask you if you had any book on 
Roman or Greek mythology/^ Faith said, which 
you would lend me. I saw you knew those names 
in Pinnock to-day. You were the only girl who 
said them right, I know, because my father has 
taught me a little Latin; and I should like to 
read something about those legends. It is so 
difficult to get books.^^ 

I wish I had,^^ Avice answered, cordially — 
this was not at all what she expected — but Miss 
Philippa taught me out of her head.^’ 

‘^Ah!^^ said Faith, with a sigh of disappoint- 
ment ; never mind then.'^ 

I hardly have any books,^^ Avice went on ; 
they are almost all Miss Priscilla’s. She never 
reads. I don’t see the good of her having them ; 
but I dare say she would lend you some if you want 
them.” 

Do you think she would ?” 

Oh, yes, I dare say, if you don’t mind asking ?” 
^^JSTot very much,” said Faith, smiling; ^^she 
can only say no. And, you see, I really must 


154 


TEAT CHILD. 


learn all I can. I want to help my aunt^ and I 
can^t teach unless I learn; and then^ some day, 
I hope to get a good salary when I am a gover- 
ness.^^ 

Shall you like being a governess ? 

Avice was flattered that a girl so much her elder 
should speak thus to her. She had ceased to 
disdain Faith Kitel since her talk with Simon. 

^^Yery much. I love teaching, and, besides, 
I want to earn money. If only Willie, my twin 
brother, could go to a good school, or Mabel, my 
next sister. She is really clever. I^m only plod- 
ding — but Mabel ! She spoke with loving pride, 
good to see. ^^But I know so little, and people 
expect so much now.’^ 

I should like to know a great deal, like Miss 
Philippa, said Avice. If Miss Owen had stayed 
I should have had a chance, but she would not. 
It was so tiresome. But I suppose you are glad.’"’ 

Of course I am, for my aunPs sake.^"’ 

It was a great pity, I think. But I suppose 
I ought not to say so to you,^^ Avice added, as 
Faith laughed. 

No, I don^t think you ought.^^ 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 155 

Miss Priscilla says I always say what I ought 
not. I can^t think why I do."’’’ 

Because you always think of yourself^ and not 
the person- you are talking to, I suppose/^ said 
Faith, bluntly. ^^But I know what you mean, and I 
wish — only it is of no use wishing. You are very 
lucky to be going to have lessons from Mr. 
Ashbury.’^ 

Faith would have been very thankful for the 
same chance. It was her hearPs desire to improve 
herself and help her family, and there seemed 
so little chance of it. 

Yes,"’^ Avice answered, her face lighting up. 

do love music. IPs the thing I love best. 
And Pm to have a lesson every half-holiday on the 
organ. 

^^You are a lucky girl,^^ said Faith. '^Well, 
good-bye ! 

And when she had helped the little maid-of-all- 
work to lay out tea, and put the schoolroom to 
rights, and written a letter for Miss Kitel, whose 
head ached badly, she sat down to work sums out 
of Sonnenschein,^^ a book as dear to her as 
abhorred by her aunt, who regarded it as one of 


156 


THAT CHILD. 


those many terrible, new-fangled things which 
threatened her school, and seduced pupils from 
the good old beaten track of her youth. Faith 
looked so cheerful and rosy over it that it evidently 
agreed with her, and Miss Kitel thought of the 
time when she had been young and hopeful too, 
and not unlike her niece, improbable as it seemed 
now; and she sighed, and wondered how long 
it would be before daily toil, with no prospect 
of anything else all her life, broke the girFs spirits, 
and made a drudge of her, like me,^^ poor Miss 
Kitel thought, with a feeling that it would be 
work, work, work, for her, with lessening courage 
and capability for all the days that she might 
yet have to live, — and she sighed again. And 
then her eye fell on a thin place in the carpet, 
and she wondered how she should ever buy another 
if no boarders came ; for it^s boarders that pay,^’ 
she said to herself, ^‘'and not one this quarter.^’ 
And next she perceived that her dress was wearing 
very much at the elbows, and Faith’s looked even 
less new, and she felt so depressed that it gave 
her quite a start when her niece looked up joyously 
and exclaimed : 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 157 

It has come quite right ! ’’ 

What has come quite right ? asked Miss 
Kitel, who felt much as if everything had gone 
wrong. 

Listen, Aunt Clarissa. Find the yearly income 
derived from investing a legacy of £4,883. 10s. in 
the Three per Cents, at £91|-, allowing for legacy 
duty 

My dear, there is no one to leave me a 
legacy,^' — coming back from her perplexed musings 
bewildered. I wish there were, — at least, I^m 
sure I donT desire the death of any one, but 
still 

Faith could not but guess that, unless the legator 
were a very near and dear friend. Miss Kitel would 
have mourned with resignation. 

However, no one ever left me a large legacy, 
nor ever will, I am afraid; so what is the use of 
calculating what it would bring in ? 

She spoke quite irritably. 

It was only a sum in percentages. Auntie. I 
do think I am getting on with my arithmetic. 
And I mean to ask Miss Beaumont to lend me 
some history and biography. As we have no 


158 


THAT CHILD. 


boarders^ I shall have plenty of time after school- 
hours/^ said Faith, who, but for the pecuniary 
loss, would much have preferred not to have girls 
on her mind when once the day^s lessons were 
over. 

^‘'Yes, I suppose so,^^ said Miss Kitel, sighing; 

but as for asking any favour of Miss Beaumont 
after the way she has behaved, I really could not 
think of it. I should not like to say to any one 
outside this room what my opinion is, but I have 
one; and though I forgive her as a Christian, 
that does not mean I choose to ask favours from 
her.^^ 

The girl’s face fell. I do so want books,” she 
urged. It seemed as if her efforts .to educate 
herself were hampered on all sides. 

am sorry, my dear, but it can’t be helped,” 
answered Miss Kitel, as positively as Priscilla her- 
self could have done. 

Faith went back to her arithmetic and Miss 
Kitel to her reflections. And as time went on, and 
Faith did not ask for any books, Avice supposed 
that, after all, her courage had failed, and felt 
rather contemptuous and disappointed in her. 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 159 


Avice herself was prospering so well under 
Simon’s teaching as to surprise and enchant him. 
Puzzle-headed as he constantly found her in every- 
thing but music — he had offered to help her if 
she found her lessons for Miss Kitel difficult — she 
had a musical sense which seemed to make her 
apprehend with delightful readiness the instruction 
ho gave her, and even to divine more than he 
told. It is true that he taught her very gradually 
and clearly ; but that a child, to whom a single 
rule of arithmetic, such as Faith Kitel would have 
mastered at five years old, was a hopeless puzzle, 
and the concord of adjective and noun in French 
an insuperable difficulty, should feel no perplexity 
when studying so complicated an instrument as 
the organ, showed a special gift, which Simon felt 
sure was worth very careful cultivation. He and 
Avice would have gladly devoted all her time to it, 
but Priscilla’s good sense forbade this. 

^^Even if she had such a turn for music as 
Mr. Ashbury says, and I own I feel rather in- 
credulous,” she said, she must have some further 
education. He seems to have suggested to her 
that she should be an organist, or a musical 


160 


THAT CHILD. 


governess, and I see no particular objection ; but 
at present she has to learn what every girl does^ — 
things* that it is no credit to know^ but which it is 
a disgrace not to know.’^ 

She said this to the vicar, who had grown used 
to her, and she entertained him so much — for he 
had a sense of humour — that he now and again 
voluntarily paid her a visit. They were sitting in 
the drawing-room, and the window was open, for 
she loved air, and the October afternoon was 
beautifully sunny. 

Quite so. Like spelling. It is really hard, 
considering the time and pains it takes to learn to 
spell, that nobody gets the least praise for being 
able to do it ; while if one is unfortunate enough 
to spell afraid with two f ^s, or agreeable with one 
e, one’s character is ruined.” 

'^Exactly,” answered Priscilla, quite seriously. 
Now, if I would allow it, that child wouljl spend 
every leisure moment at the piano, or over the way 
at Mr. Ashbury’s. As it is, she spends part of 
every day at his house. I suppose he likes it, or 
he would not encourage her; but I don’t under- 
stand it. To me she is the reverse of attractive, — 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 161 


a plain, sulky child, who pays no more respect to 
her elders than if one were a cabbage, and either 
is in wild spirits when she gets from under my 
eye, or sits without a word to say.^^ The vicar's 
eyes twinkled ; he did not think Priscilla left much 
opportunity for other people to talk, or that she 
was likely to lead Avice to be confidential. But 
Mr. Ashbury is eccentric, as we all know ; and it 
is a relief to me to know at least she is not in 
mischief. If my poor sister had not again and 
again said she would never let her go to a boarding 
school, I should have sent her long ago to a good, 
strict one, where difficult girls are taken; and, 
indeed, I have several times thought of it, but she 
has behaved rather better of late." 

Mr. Ashbury seems satisfied," said the vicar, 
recollecting, with amusement, in what different 
terms Simon talked of Avice. 

Oh ! I daresay ; but I should not think 
much of his opinion," said Priscilla, who seldom, 
as Mr. Lisle reflected, did think much of any 
opinion but her own. It is not likely he should 
know anything about girls, and men are so easily 
taken in, you know." She seemed to have for- 


162 


THAT CHILD. 


gotten site was speaking to a man at the time., 
The vicar bowed^ and his eyes twinkled again. 
^^This rage for music won^t last, you will see. 
She has a passion for novelty and amusement ; it 
is ingrain — French, I suppose. I saw what sort 
of a child she was when I came, six months ago. 
There is a great deal of sly obstinacy about her, as 
something which passed about a cat proved to me. 
— Good gracious ! there it is."’^ 

The vicar followed her amazed glance, and saw 
Ghilperic looking in at the open window. He had 
grown adventurous as he increased in age and size, 
and made excursions round about his masters 
domain. No doubt he had come to have a look at 
his old home. At Priscilla^s hasty movement he 
made off, but she was close behind, and after a 
spirited chase she returned, holding her captive 
fast, to the laughing vicar. 

^^Well!^^ she said, indignantly, ^^that child is 
even more cunning than I believed. She has kept 
this creature hidden all these months. There must 
have been connivance on the servants^ part; I 
shall look into it. But just now, if you^ll excuse 
me, Mr. Lisle, 1^11 make sure there is no trickery. 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 16 .^ 


and take the cat myself to Mrs. Mason^ my grocer^s 
wife^ to whom I promised it.^^ 

Pray, don^t let me detain you,^^ said the vicar ^ 
we will walk together to your gates.'’^ And 
Chilperic was hustled, struggling and mewing, into* 
a basket, and carried off by Priscilla, who was^ 
partly irate, partly well satisfied. 

She went her way down the street, and Mr. Lisle,, 
greatly diverted, called on Simon to describe his 
visit to Miss Priscilla. Simon was deep in a book,, 
and hardly heard the vicaPs first sentences, though 
he laid it down ; but when the capture of Chilperic- 
was described, Mr. Lisle had no reason to complain 
that his story failed of its effect. 

What ! cried Simon, starting up, and lettings 
the book fall ; she has caught my cat and given 
it away, — given away Chilperic ! 

I declare I never thought of it,^^ said Mr^ 
Lisle ; of course it was your cat. I should have 
recognised it but for the positive way in which she 
spoke.^^ 

He did not know Chilperic's history. 

^^Of course it is, and you say that that woman — 
Where’s my hat ? Davies I Davies ! — my hat ! — 

M 2 


164 


THAT CHILD. 


Excase me/^ and he was gone before the vicar 
could recover from his laughter. The story was 
even better than he had thought_, and he loved a 
good story dearly. He followed, but Simon was 
almost out of sight, hurrying along the street at a 
rate which roused general speculation as to what 
terrible cause could have occurred in Mr. Ashbury’s 
household to account for such haste and flurry, and 
while some reported confldently that Mrs. Davies 
had had a fit, others declared that the manuscript 
of the history of Ashbury had been stolen. 

Had it been so, Simon could hardly have been 
more moved. Chilperic, who had become his 
friend and constant companion, and a never- 
failing interest and amusement ; Chilperic in the 
power of Miss Priscilla ! His one thought was 
to rescue him. 

Meantime Priscilla had reached the grocer^ s, 
and found Mrs. Mason helping, as usual, in the 
shop. She marched up to the counter. Here’s 
the cat I promised you, Mrs. Mason, said she, 
going to the point as usual. Pm sorry you have 
had to wait so long.^^ 

She turned the basket sideways as she spoke. 


MISS FBISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 165 


and Chilperic sprang out, saw himself in a strange 
place and among strange people, and bolted off 
the counter and out at the door, pursued by a 
terrier which belonged to one of the customers. 
Both were out of sight in a moment. 

Well,^^ said Priscilla, heartily vexed, ^Hhat 
cat is born to plague me. I^m very sorry, Mrs.. 
Mason.^^ 

Just then, while Mrs. Mason was politely 
declaring that it did not in the least signify, 
and the owner of the dog came back, having 
vainly whistled and called, Simon entered, breath- 
less. 

have come to beg you will give me back 
my cat at once,^^ he said, confronting Priscilla 
sternly. Mr. Lisle tells me you found it in 
your garden and have given it to Mrs. Mason. 
I beg to say that, although I regret its intrusion, 
I consider that to give it away 

Your cat ! it was a kitten belonging to -Avice 
Seaman,^^ answered Priscilla, astonished by this 
vehement apostrophe from a man so shy and 
retiring. 

I beg your pardon, it came from my house. 


166 


THAT CHILD, 


Was it not a grey Persian^ with a blue ribbon 
round its neck ? 

^^Well, I believe it had a blue bow/^ said 
Priscilla; ^^but I felt sure it was one I ordered 
to be given away six months ago/^ 

Where is it ? demanded Simon, waiving the 
question. 

For once Priscilla was taken aback. 

I don’t know/’ she said, feeling very much in 
the wrong. I had no idea, of course, it was 
yours, and I brought it here at once, and it — 
well, it ran away.” 

^^Dear me!” said the grocer’s wife, wouldn’t 
have had it happen for five pounds ! Mr. Cotton’s 
dog ran after it and chased it up the street, 
and though Pm sure you did your best to 
call him back, Mr. Cotton, there was no 
doing it.” 

And he’s a noted cat-killer,” added Mr. Cotton, 
by way of consolation, as Simon stood speechless, 
he got me into trouble only last week by killing 
old Mrs. Murch’s tabby.” 

If he kills my cat. I’ll — Pll hang him 
with my own hands 1 ” cried Simon, exas- 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 167 

perated. Which way did he chase the poor 
thing ? ” 

^^Up the street^ sir; 1^11 go and see if he^s 
coming back/^ said the dog^s owner, who, though 
objectionably proud of his terrier’s evil ways in 
general, had no wish to displease Simon Ashbury. 

Fll come too,^^ said Simon, too full of anxiety 
and anger to say another word to Priscilla, and 
they went out of the shop, while she stood in- 
expressibly vexed at what had occurred, waiting 
till they returned. Presently she saw them coming 
back with the dog, and ran out to ask if there 
were news of the cat. None,^^ Simon answered, 
as curtly as she could have done herself, and she 
had to go home, feeling perhaps more uncomfort- 
able than she had ever done in her life. Simon 
returned to tell Davies what had happened, and the 
good woman turned as red as a peony with in- 
dignation, and relieved her mind by roundly ex- 
pressing her opinion of Miss Priscilla, which 
comforted Simon a little. They talked over what 
the chances were that Chilperic had escaped and 
would ever find his way home. Simon was very 
dejected, but Davies took a more hopeful view. 


168 


THAT CHILD. 


So long as no one steals him ; but he is a 
beauty, and many would like to have him/^ she 
said, for she had grown as proud of Chilperic as 
his master was. Mrs. Johnson asked me only 
yesterday where she could get such a one, and, 
says I, ^ You’re not the first, ma’am,’ and, says 
she, ^It’s like Lady Morrison’s breed at the 
Priory, but she never will give a kitten away, 
which I call very unneighbourly.’ I said nothing, 
sir, but I thought to myself, ours was one that 
strayed from the Priory, and those boys you told 
me of got it. I’ve often wondered where it came 
from.” 

^^It seems destined to be lost,” sighed poor 
Simon, and just then Avice came in for her lesson. 
Her dismay was great, but presently she said. 
He will come home, I think. Anyhow, I will 
tell all the girls, and you must have him cried, 
and let everybody know he is lost.” 

To be sure ! ” said Simon ; and That’s a 
good thought,” said Mrs. Davies ; and Priscilla, 
as she went down to the lending library, which 
she had stimulated by a gift of new books, heard 
the crier’s little bell, and, high-pitched, ^^Grrey 


MISS PRISCILLA KEEPS HER PROMISE. 169 


Persian cat lost. Whoever will restore it to 

Mr. Ashbury and hurried on, discomposed 

afresh. 

Simon felt too shaken and upset to propose a 
music-lesson, but Avice was of different stuff. 

IPs of no good doing nothing,^^ she remarked, 
it won^t bring Chilperic back,^^ and she sat down 
stoically to practise her five-finger exercises, and 
the simple piece which she had now been promoted 
to playing. All the same, her dreams were haunted 
that night by Chilperic, and she risked getting a 
bad mark for being late at school the next day, 
by running into Simonas house to inquire for 
their lost treasure. 

He has not come back,^^ said Simon, mourn- 
fully. got up twice in the night, thinking I 
heard him mew, but 

Chilperic, my Chilperic ! cried Avice, and 
there, unperceived, on the cushion laid expressly 
for his use in the window- seat, lay the cat, dusty, 
sleepy, so tired that he could hardly move, but 
safe and sound. 

Davies ! Davies ! the cat is here ! cried 
Simon, exultant, from the top of the stairs. 


170 


THAT CHILD. 


whenever did he come, sir?^^ responded 
Davies, hurrying up from below. 

I cannot imagine. I have been all the morn- 
ing ever since six o'clock on the look-out for him, 
and how he got in unperceived is more than I 
know. Poor Chilperic ! " 

Simon did not know how to make enough of 
his favourite, who purred faintly, but did hot even 
lift his head. 

^^Is he all right?" Simon asked, anxiously, of 
Avice and Davies. 

Bless you, yes, sir!" said Davies. ^^Just let 
him be, and he'll wash himself, and be glad enough 
to eat by-and-by. I'll be bound. Why where can 
he have been, I wonder ?" 

But as Chilperic never, as far as they knew, 
wrote that autobiography which Simon suspected 
him of wishing to compose, the question remained 
unanswered. In course of time Priscilla learned 
that Mr. Ashbury had recovered his cat, and it 
was a great relief to her, but for a long time after 
she could not meet the vicar with a basket on her 
arm without his asking her whose cat she was 
going to give away now. 


THAT CHILD. 


171 


CHAPTER YIII. 

AVICE SEAMAN^S HOEIZON WIDENS. 

JpRISCILLA BEAUMONT had hit on a truth 
when she said that Avice was singularly 
impatient of dulness. It was abhorrent to her; 
she felt at times almost desperate to think that, as 
far as she could see, to-day and all the days that 
should follow would be just alike, and she longed 
passionately for anything that could bring some 
variety into them. It was a pity, no doubt, and 
very incomprehensible to Priscilla^s steady-going 
English mind. But Avice was not English, — or, 
at all events, not altogether English, — and no one 
could make her so. She used to speculate a great 
deal about her own history and character; her 
castle-building was prodigious, and absorbed most 
of her spare time. Simon, though he was very 
fond of her, once mildly observed, ^^It would be 
well if your personal horizon were wider, my dear 
child,^^ — a saying which perplexed her, and she 


172 


THAT CHILD. 


took it to Faith Kitel^ who^ with her usual un- 
compromising straightforwardness, replied : 

I suppose it means that you should not let 
everything begin and end with yourself/^ 

Avice could not be much gratified. 

I don^t think I do/’ she protested ; I would 
do anything for Mr. Ashbury, or even Davies.^ ^ 

Oh, well, they are very fond of you ; it^s all 
the same as if it were yourself. But you would 
not go out of your way to help Lilias Bell or 
Maggie Lee.^^ 

f^Why should I ? said Avice, with unfeigned 
surprise. 

Yes, there you see ! But the unselfish people 
help for helping^s sake.^^ 

^^Yes, Miss Philippa did that,^^ said Avice, 
thoughtfully. 

And Faith supposed she was thinking how 
Philippa Beaumont had taken her, a friendless 
waif, into her home, but she was not. Philippa 
had so entirely felt it the natural and simple thing 
to do, that Avice continued to regard it in the 
same way, often as Priscilla had tried to make her 
see it otherwise. She often felt very lonely and 


AVIGE SEAMAN^S HORIZON WIDENS. 173 


unhappy, but it was not exactly because she was a 
dependant. 

And so does Mr. Ashbury/^ said Faith ; he 
is always doing kind things; only this week he 
has paid for FTed Pyne’s outfit and passage to 
Australia. Ned had got into bad company 

I know/^ interrupted Avice, who did somehow 
know most things which chanced in Ashbury. 
heard Davies telling Mr. Ashbury to get away was 
the only chance for him.^^ 

Yes_, Ned said so to Aunt Clarissa himself, and 
his old grandfather is so thankful 

Avice saw now why Simon had not sent for 
some expensive books which he had talked of 
getting. 

Mr. Ashbury took so much trouble, and talked 
so kindly to him when no one else would hold out 
a hand, and everybody said he was a black 
sheep,^^ Faith went on; thaFs what I call real 
helping.'^ 

And you want to help people, too ; but then 
they are your own,^^ said Avice, totally forgetful of 
the countless little kind actions done almost every 
day to herself and the other scholars by Faith. 


174 


THAT CHILD. 


Yes^ of course,, they come first.^^ 

^^But you never asked Miss Priscilla for any 
books/^ said Avice, rather triumphantly. 

Aunt Clarissa did not wish it."’^ 

Oh ! And Avice stood thinking. She had 
misjudged Faith,, and she was sorry for it. 

The effect of her regret appeared that evening 
as she sat at tea with Priscilla. They had their 
meals together, though it was rather a penance 
to both. Avice always jarred on Priscilla, she 
hardly knew why, but so it was, and Priscilla 
affected Avice for ill, not good. There was usually 
a good deal of talk, but it was on Priscilla^s side ; 
Avice listened, or seemed to listen, and said very 
little. She spoke now : 

I wish Faith Kitel had more books,^^ she said, 
abruptly. 

She was such an ingrained mimic that, when 
with Priscilla, she could not help catching some- 
thing of her cassante manner. It was well that 
she also felt the influence of Simon Ashbury^ s 
gentle refinement very strongly, and had never 
forgotten that hint of his not to let her relations 
have reason to be ashamed of her. 


AVICE SEAMAN’S HORIZON WIDENS. 175 


What for ? asked Priscilla^ stopping for a 
moment as she poured out her tea. 

She wants so much to learn all she can, and 
pass the senior examination.^^ 

Not much chance of that as things are/^ said 
Priscilla, who, though she bore Miss Owen no 
grudge, which was magnanimous of her, still felt 
sore at the failure of her plan for the Ashbury 
damsels. 

No, that is just it.^^ 

There was silence for a moment; Priscilla was 
thinking. 

So Faith Kitel wants to pass the Cambridge 
examination,-’^ she said, presently ; I should not 
have expected that. It is to her credit, but of 
course she will never be able to do it. What put 
it into her head ? 

She wants to learn all she can, and be a 
governess. She would have liked Miss Owen to 
stay, only for her aunt.^’ 

Ah, Miss Owen,^’ and Priscilla considered 
again. 

Avice had no idea how much that last speech 
inclined Miss Priscilla’s heart towards Faith Kitel, 


176 


THAT CHILD. 


whom she had hitherto only regarded as one of 
the obstacles in her way. Now she viewed her 
as an ally. She was far too tenacious readily to 
give up any scheme on which she had set her 
hearty and she had set it much on a good school in 
Ashbury. She said no more then, and Avice was 
angry that she did not take the hint about the 
books, and with herself for not having the courage 
to ask outright; but the next morning Priscilla 
called to her, as she prepared to run off to school, 
and bade her tell Faith Kitel to come and speak 
to her that afternoon. Avice gave the message, 
full of expectation, which communicated itself to 
Faith, who obeyed the summons early, as a half- 
holiday set her free. Priscilla’s eyes rested on her 
approvingly. This sweet-tempered, sensible, rosy 
girl, who looked her straight in the face, modest 
and fearless, was what she liked and could under- 
stand, while an elf like Avice Seaman, who, she 
dimly felt, came of some unknown strain, and 
had elements in her on which there was no 
calculating, annoyed and perplexed her. Priscilla, 
who had no imagination, detested being perplexed. 
Whatever she could not understand roused her 


AVICE SEAMAN^S HORIZON WIDENS. 177 


suspicions. Avice was present, for it never 
occurred to Priscilla that any one could prefer 
their affairs to be treated in private, and of course 
listened with all her ears. 

Avice Seaman tells me you want to pass 
the Cambridge local, she said; ^‘"you might get 
a certificate, I dare say, but honours are another 
thing. 

I know, but I mean to try to get them. My 
father taught me some Divinity and Latin before 
I came here, and I like Euclid very much, but 
I know I am bad at constitutional history.^’ 

Oddly enough, Priscilla, though no reader, was 
keen for modern education, and knew all about 
what was necessary to learn for the Cambridge 
examinations. She had the spirit of progress 
strong in her. 

That’s a pity,^’ she said; ^^you ought to join 
a correspondence class, or else have good teaching. 

Yes, and I ought to read up English literature 
too.^^ 

Faith’s eyes went wistfully to the well-filled 
bookcases. She could see Chaucer’s poems and 
Bacon’s essays from where she sat, but the recol- 

N 


178 


THAT CHILD. 


lection of Miss KiteFs prohibition silenced her 
desire to borrow them. Avice could hardly help 
dancing with impatience that Priscilla did not 
offer to lend them, but her mind was otherwise 
occupied. 

I suppose you want to help your family,^^ 
she said. 

She knew a good deal about the Kitels, and 
very likely could have told exactly what the in- 
come of Faith^s father was. 

Indeed I do, Miss Beaumont.^^ 

Yes, there are ten of you, are there not ? 
How people can justify it to themselves to marry 
on a curators salary is more than ever I could 
understand, and then there is certain to come a 
pack of children ; however, that is not your fault ; 
but you have seen what it means, so I hope you^ll 
be wiser when your time comes. 

Avice saw Faith^s colour rise a little, but she 
made no reply, not chafing inwardly as poor Miss 
Kitel did, but taking Priscilla in a business-like 
way, just as she was, and putting up with it. 
There must have been a motive for her summons, 
and she waited to hear it. 


AVICE SEAMAN’S HORIZON WIDENS. 179 


you are willing to study in earnest/^ said 
Priscilla, after a mementos pause, I, on my part, 
should be willing to forward it. Of course, you 
have neither time nor opportunity to do so here, 
but I will give you eighteen months at a good 
school ; you are seventeen next birthday, are you 
not ? You have time before you ; but, mind, I 
shall expect you to work hard, and make it worth 
my while to go to this expense.^^ 

Avice^s cheeks burned, but Faith was too much 
moved to consider whether the offer were graciously 
made or not. 

Oh, Miss Beaumont,^^ said she, and stopped. 
Priscilla saw that her proposal had stirred the girl 
deeply, and smiled, well pleased; but then the 
girFs face fell and her eyes filled with tears. Oh, 
if I only could,^^ she said. It was the bitterest 
moment she had ever known. The cup of hope 
had been held to her lips only to be refused by 
herself. 

^^Well, and why can’t you?’^ Priscilla asked, in 
surprise. 

I do not see how I can possibly leave Aunt 
Clarissa. She is not at all well; she has had a 


180 


THAT CHILD. 


great deal of anxiety, and her eyes are far from 
strong; she wants some one at hand to make up 
her accounts and write her letters, and take care 
of her. Miss Daws only comes for so many hours, 
and then goes home. Aunt Clarissa is not fit to 
he left, I am sure.^^ 

That may be, but surely she can find some 
one to do as much as you can.^^ 

don^t think so. I would give anything to 
accept your offer. Miss Beaumont, but who is 
there 

That I don^t pretend to know, but I cannot 
think you so all-important to your aunt that she 
cannot spare you. Surely for what you cost her 
in board she might find some one to take your 
place.^^ 

am afraid not,^^ said Faith, seeing every 
difficulty the clearer the more she longed to 
accept. It is the little things that no stranger 
could understand .... and, besides, I have just 
got a little boys^ class together, which I teach, 
and it all helps when there is so little coming in.^^ 
Faith was not at all ashamed of being very 
poor. She took it simply as a matter of course. 


AVICE SEAMAN^ S HORIZON WIDENS. 181 


But don^t you see that^ thougli you might lose 
a few pounds for the time, you would be able to 
help your aunt and your own family much more 
effectually later ? As it is, what can you be but a 
nursery governess ? You can never rise beyond that.’^ 

It is quite true. Miss Beaumont, and I do 
love learning. But if I went away now, just when 
my aunt^s health seems breaking up, it would be 
very hard on her. You don^t know how much 
she has done for us, and now I can repay it a 
little. The school is all she has to live on, and 
if she lost it she would starve, I think. She 
would not come to us, I know, for she has said 
so.^^ 

I should think not ! How could you keep 
her ? But I did not know she was so dependent 
on her school,^^ said Priscilla, rather startled, as 
she remembered her attempt to set up a rival 
one. suppose she put her money — I know 

she had some at one time — into some absurd com- 
pany or other, which gives twelve per cent, for 
a year or two and then bursts. The less people 
have the more insanely they risk it, and then they 
go to their friends for help.^^ 


182 


THAT CHILD. 


aunt would never do that. She has thought 
of others all her life/^ said Faith, warmly. 

Yes, a great deal too much. There it is again ; 
people have no business to think so much of others 
that they leave themselves penniless in old age. 
That is quite against my principle.^^ 

It was not my aunt^s fault that she lost her 
money. It was in Grrey son’s bank, where so many 
people had shares. It was thought quite safe, I 
believe.” 

Oh, ay,” said Priscilla, recollecting that it was 
by the merest chance her own father had not 
bought some shares in that very bank. I re- 
member. It seemed safe enough. Well, I won’t 
take your answer now, and I tell you frankly I 
shall think you a very head- strong, foolish girl if 
you refuse my offer. You can think it over and 
write home.” 

Faith took this as a dismissal, thanked her, and 
went away. She thought that she had done right ; 
at all events, it cost her very dear, and her heart 
was very full. She said nothing to Miss Kitel, 
but laid the case before her parents, telling them 
honestly how the harass of this year had told on 


AVIGE SEAMAN^ S HORIZON WIDENS. 183 


her aunt, and how the school just now seemed 
increasing. Oh, if only Mabel were older ! she 
thought ; but after all it would be a shame to 
set her down here.^^ It did not occur to her that 
perhaps it was a little hard on herself. Faith did 
not know what it was to grumble ; she had had 
a life of hard work and taken it cheerfully, though 
she often wished her father could have a little 
money, and her mother a holiday. The more she 
thought of it the less she could see how to be 
spared. Avice awaited the reply from Devonshire 
with some excitement. ^^WonT they say you 
must go?^^ she asked, with more interest than 
she often felt for anything beyond her own con- 
cerns ; that would make it all right, if you donT. 
mind Miss PriscilWs helping you. I would say 
no to anybody who pitchforked her kindnesses at 
me like that."’^ 

You certainly know how to give a thing the 
exact word,^^ said Faith, laughing, but I should 
be very glad if I could possibly take what she 
offers. IPs her way, you know.-’^ 

^^Yes, that^s what she says. ^ Fm Priscilla 
Beaumont, and it^s my way, and people must put 


184 


THAT CHILD. 


up vvitli it/ said Avice, with Priscilla^s very look 
aud voice ; but what sense is there really in 
that ? Of course she is Priscilla Beaumont, but 
why should she have that way ? and why should 
any one put up with it ? 

I really don^t know/^ said Faith. She did 
not care much about the matter; her mind was 
occupied with the question of what reply would 
come to her letter, and it was rather hard some- 
times, even to her equal temper, to endure the 
children's tiresome ways and the little frets of 
Miss Kitel, who knew nothing of what hung in the 
balance. 

Avice grew more and more interested as she 
watched her. She began to see that people, even 
with a family very dear to them, had troubles, and 
it did her good. think my personal horizon 
is widening,^* she remarked to Simon at this 
time. 

“ What do you mean, child ? he asked, 
laughing. Ah, I recollect. Is it ? All the 
better ; but he looked at her in an odd, ab- 
stracted way, which made her exclaim, You are 
not listening, Mr. Ashbury, — not as much as 


AVICE SEAMAN^S HORIZON WIDENS. 185 


Chilperic ! Chilperic, dear, did you hear wliat 
I said ? 

Chilperic answered by one of those little cries 
with which a cat accustomed to be talked to will 
respond to such an appeal. 

There ! he attends to me. What were you 
thinking of, Mr. Ashbury ? 

Of a little girl I once knew; I donT know 
why you sometimes remind me of her ; you are not 
like her, I believe.^^ 

You believe ! are you not sure, then ? 

Not quite,^^ he said, in the same odd, reflective 
tone. “ No, I suppose you are not.^’ 

Who was she ? 

A godchild of mine, Millicent Fortescue.^^ 

He looked earnestly at Avice as he spoke, as 
if awaiting some possible effect from the name 
he had just said; but she only replied ^‘'Millicent 
Fortescue ! what a pretty name ! Evidently it 
was unknown to her. 

Yes, very pretty,^^ said Simon, dreamily. 

She was a dear child. She always called me 
godfather. It had a pretty, quaint sound."’^ 

And where is she now ? 


186 


THAT CHILD. 


do not know/^ 

Do not know where your godchild is ! 

No. Her father was a great friend of mine ; 
he lived at Hereford, and I used to spend part 
of the holidays with him and he with me, — 
though he was much my elder. We both loved 
music, that was a great bond ; but he had far 
more genius for it than I. Even as a mere boy he 
composed things worthy to be preserved. I play 
some of them still ; that piece ^ Out of the Depths,^ 
that you are never tired of hearing, is his, and 
he was only twenty when he composed it. But 
he had no knack of getting on in the world, and 
nothing he could do ever satisfied him. On a 
wider scale he was like our vicar, who must have 
perfection in every blossom, or cut it off. People 
said he was unpractical; I suppose he was, poor 
Cyril ! He felt he had more in him than he could 
bring out, and he shrank from attacking boldly 
some large subject. Only one or two people knew 
what was in him. Certainly his wife did not. It 
was not her fault, I believe; she married the 
wrong man for her, and he the wrong woman for 
him.^^ 


AVIGE ^EaMAN^S horizon WIDENS. 187 

And they had one little girl. What became of 
them ? 

They lost nearly all their money in a 
bank 

Greyson^s ? 

What on earth do you know about Greyson^s 
bank, child ? 

^^Miss KiteTs money was there.^^ 

^^Ah, true, and that of a great many others. 
Poor Fortescue took his wife and child abroad, 
and for a time we kept up a regular correspon- 
dence ; they lived at Avranches.^'^ 

Again he looked at Avice, and again the name 
touched no chord in her memory. 

Then it slackened ; it was my fault, I know. 
I am sorry for it now, but there are times when 
one^s best friend seems outside of one^s troubles. 
I heard now and then, however, until poor Cyril 
died.^^ 

And how old is the little girl now ? 

She — I must think. She would be over thirty; 
yes, a good bit over thirty, I suppose.^^ 

^‘^Over thirty ! cried Avice, disgusted; 
thought you said she was a little girl.^^ 


188 


THAT CHILD. 


So she was — then. I declare, I always thought 
of her as she was when she went away, a child of 
twelve, till this moment. She married, at seven- 
teen, a Frenchman. I don^t recollect his name.^^ 
And your friend is dead ! 

‘^Yes, Mrs. Fortescue wrote and told me, but 
she never took to me. Women are sometimes 
jealous of their husband’s old friends, and I dare 
say she guessed he told me much that he would 
never have said to her; perhaps she felt it hard, 
poor woman. I can’t say I ever liked her. Milli- 
cent wrote very lovingly to me when she married, 
and I blame myself that I did not answer more 
warmly. But I had so little to say to a happy 
young wife, — my own home was very empty. She 
named her first child after me, — an odd name 
for a girl, was it not? Simone. I wished it 
had been Lucy. And after that she gradually 
ceased to write.” 

It sounded an odd name enough, certainly, said 
English fashion. 

Lucy would have been prettier,” Avice said. 

Yes, much prettier, but it was lovingly done, 
and I wish I knew what had become of her. I 


AVICE SEAMAN^S HORIZON WIDENS. 189 


wrote during the Franco- German War, but got no 
answer. Probably they never had my letter.^^ 
Avice^s horizon was decidedly widening. She 
was thoroughly interested by this conversation, 
and she thought about Faith Kitel and Simonas 
godchild instead of herself. It was good for her. 
The life she led inevitably drove her inwards, 
and the exhortations to work hard, as she would 
have to maintain herself, all led to self-centredness. 
As she entered into SiraoiPs interests and the 
trials of Miss Kitel, she grew more contented 
and her lessons prospered, as Priscilla owned, 
when she brought home her exercise books at 
Christmas, though she was terribly puzzle-headed, 
and slow to learn by heart, and certain not to 
know anything which Priscilla chanced to question 
her about. Still, there was improvement, Priscilla 
admitted, and it confirmed her in a plan which she 
thought of when Faith came sorrowfully but firmly 
to say that her father, too, thought Miss Kitel 
needed her. Priscilla was very angry, and said so 
with great plainness ; but, when she had thus 
relieved herself, she said, ''Well, however silly 
you are I suppose you would not refuse good 


190 


THAT CHILD. 


teaching in the holidays. I have a great mind to 
invite Miss Owen ; I consider her just as mistaken 
as you are^ but from her own point of view she 
was right, no doubt. Yes, 1^11 have her down, 
and she can teach Avice Seaman too.^^ 

Faith flushed rosy red : she looked the thanks 
she could not find words enough for. 

Yes, yes, that is how it shall be,^^ said 
Priscilla, pleased that one at least of her plans 
should be thus received. Ifll settle it at 
once."’^ 

Oh, this is too good,^^ Faith cried, when she 
found herself in the garden with Avice, and she 
gave a skip of joy that proved after all she was 
not much more than a child still. 

But what will Miss Kitel say ? Avice asked. 
She won^t be pleased. 

I am afraid not. But this is not like vexing 
her by a trifle, like borrowing the books. I am 
sure my father would tell me to profit by it. 
Miss Priscilla is very kind, Avice.^^ 

Oh, I suppose so.^^ 

She is, and it shows something rather fine not 
to bear Miss Owen any grudge for refusing to 


AVICE SEAM AN’ HORIZON WIDENS. 191 


carry out her plans. I could on very well 
with your Miss Priscilla.^' 

Then I wish you had to do it, and not me — 

though after all, perhaps 

Avice had learned some consideration, for she 
stopped before she had said that living with Miss 
KitePs fidgets would be nearly as bad, and if 
Faith guessed, as she probably did, what remained 
unsaid, she only laughed and took no offence. 


192 


THAT CHILD. 


CHAPTER IX. 

got people to belong to.^^ 

rjlHE reappearance of Miss Owen could not but 
greatly flutter Miss Kitel, and indeed she 
was so disconsolate and frightened that Faith felt 
obliged to tell the rival schoolmistress how the case 
stood. Thereupon Miss Owen walked off to call 
on Miss Kitel, and assure her she might lay 
aside her fears_, as she had no intention of re- 
maining beyond the Christmas holidays. In the 
rebound of relief, Miss Kitel grew quite con- 
fidential, and told her that, could she but sell her 
furniture and the goodwill of her school, she would 
gladly retire from a profession now grown too 
arduous for her. 

What I should desire,^^ she said, would be 
to buy an annuity and go into lodgings. House- 
keeping, when one is not in easy circumstances, 
is such a burden ! I have often thought that 
lodgings, and a little annuity of which one felt 


“Pra GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TO: 


” las 

certain, however small — it would not be a large 
sum which I should need to purchase one. You 
see, I am not young.^^ 

Miss Owen regarded her compassionately. No- 
thing could have been a greater contrast than the 
two women — one faded, worn out, the represen- 
tative of a state of things fast passing away; the 
other, still young, full of energy and capacity,, 
thoroughly up to her work, and able to hold her 
own in the battle of life. Even if she did not 
come to Ashbury, it was inevitable that some one 
like her would one day appear and sweep poor 
Miss Xitel away. In the nature of things it must 
be so. 

It was a curious turn of fortune that Miss Xitel 
should come to wish her rival would set up a 
school in Ashbury ; yet, had the moderate sum 
which she named been forthcoming, she would 
gladly have given up the struggle. She was tired 
of the battle, of fretting when no boarders came^ 
and of worrying over them when they did come ; 
and to lodge with some quiet landlady and have 
a view on the High Street seemed a haven of 
rest. But, moderate as this sum was. Miss Owen 


0 


194 


THAT CHILD. 


could not venture to risk it in what might be, 
after all, a doubtful speculation, and to the dis- 
appointment of Miss Kitel she did not take 
advantage of the hint. JSTo more passed on the 
subject until near the end of the holidays, when 
Priscilla, much pleased with the progress Faith 
made, again began to lament that Miss Owen 
could not remain in Ashbury. 

^^Bven that little dunce Avice Seaman seems 
able to learn from you,^^ she said ; would it be 
possible to buy out Miss Kitel ? Then she learned 
what Miss Kitel had said. Why did you not 
tell me before Priscilla asked, almost angrily. 

Nothing can be easier. I will buy the annuity, 
and you shall take her place. You could afford 
to buy her furniture, I suppose ? 

Liberal though she undoubtedly was, Priscilla 
had, like Mrs. Gilpin, a frugal mind,^^ and never 
desired to give more than was necessary. Besides, 
she was preparing to lay down a large sum, which 
would bring in no return as far as money went. 

^‘"This place will grow a large one in a few 
years. I have been asked — mind, this is confi- 
dential — to sell a piece of my land for the site of 


“ rVE GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TO: 


195 


a large boys^ school which is to be moved here. 
You will see it will bring families here who have 
girls as well as boys. I don^t want the money; 
part may very well go to buy that poor, incapable 
thing her annuity.^^ 

Priscilla had felt one or two sharp pricks at the 
heart since she had understood what the loss of 
the school would have meant to Miss Kitel. She 
was really glad to have the chance of making her 
comfortable. This quite changed the aspect of 
affairs. Nothing would be altered until Midsummer, 
but it came to be generally known that then Miss 
Kitel would retire, and Miss Owen take her place ; 
and, though the particulars of the affair were of 
course not made public. Miss KitePs satisfaction 
was evident — her face lost its anxious, pinched 
look ; she even finished most of her sentences, and 
had a delightful sense of coming leisure. Every 
one felt it an excellent arrangement for all parties. 
Faith had reason to be light-hearted, for she was 
to be Miss Owen^s pupil-teacher, and free from 
the weight which had burdened the conscientious 
girl not a little in secret, of knowing her aunPs 
pupils were inefficiently taught. After all, Priscilla 
0 2 


196 


THAT CHILD, 


had carried out her plan^ and she was so well 
pleased that even Avice benefited by her benevo- 
lent frame of mind^ and got fewer snubs than 
usual. 

It had been an agreeable surprise to Avice 
that Miss Owen did not scold her for dulness, 
but seemed to understand her difficulties ; and she 
was conscious that her mind had made a step 
forward, although it might not be very apparent 
to others. She gained a great deal from being 
much with Simon_, who treated her as a com- 
panion, and unconsciously rebuked her vanity by 
the gentle humility which always supposed every 
one was as learned as himself. She became warmly 
interested in his history of Ashbury, and was very 
desirous of making him spare the eyes tried by 
star-gazing, night after night, as he sat at the 
great telescope, looking out into the silent, un- 
fathomable depths of sky ; and she was urgent 
to write from his dictation, and the mortification 
of finding her little scrawl illegible to him did 
what no reproof or admonishment had effected ; 
she set earnestly to work to improve her hand- 
writing, and showed that, with sufficient motive. 


^‘PVE GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TO:' 197 


slie could endure distasteful labour. Simon was 
delighted. He held, with a great authority, that 
of all work that produces results nine-tenths must 
be drudgery; and to see this freakish elf volun- 
tarily write copy after copy, and keep away from 
the organ, to acquire what in itself she cared 
very little about, heartily rejoiced him. Priscilla, 
too, was favourably impressed, though of course 
she began by contemptuous disbelief that Avice 
would persevere. 

There is some good in that child,^^ she allowed, 
and it was a great concession; ^^but it will be 
a marvel if she does not soon get sick of it all. 
However, Simon Ashbury is very kind to her, 
and if she can really help with his fads it is all 
very well."’^ 

Avice would certainly have flamed up had she 
heard the history of Ashbury called a fad. It 
was her pride and delight that she knew more 
about it than anybody else, could find any notes 
he might want, and had herself enabled him to 
add the Oriolus galhulus to his list of birds. Her 
proud importance and mysteriousness about the 
work aroused a good deal of mockery and in- 


198 


THAT CHILD. 


dignation among her fellow-pupils^ for which she 
did not care a whit. What did they know about 
the opus magnum ? Only just what rumour told. 
She knew all the plan of it ; knew how much had 
yet to be done, where links had yet to be found, 
and what illustrations there would be to the book. 
Simon meant to spare no cost on it ; he intended 
to have an edition de luxe for presentation to a 
few friends and public libraries, with fine engrav- 
ings and choice binding. Avice and he often 
discussed the' material, colour, and tooling best 
adapted for this binding, now inclining to one, 
now to another. A second edition would have 
fewer illustrations, and cost no more than the 
ordinary book-buyer might give; and then there 
would be a cheap abridgment, such as visitors to 
the town would buy at the stationer’s. The vicar 
had not been far wrong in saying that all this 
would cost a fortune. It certainly would cost 
almost all he had; but then, as he said, he had 
no one to leave his money to, and he felt as if 
in thus devoting it he was at once doing honour 
to his native town, and connecting with it for 
ever the name which he and his ancestors owed 


rVE GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TO:' 199 


to and which ended with himself. It did not 
seem to outsiders that there was much to say 
about Ashbury, but to one who loved it as he 
did there appeared to be work for two lifetimes. 
All the enthusiasm and hopes of Simon Ashbury 
had gone into this work ; there was something 
pathetic in its importance to him, compared with 
the small account it could ever be to the world 
in general. Perhaps, in the absence of more per- 
sonal hopes and cares, it had grown of undue 
value in his eyes; but, however that might be, 
he had put his life into it, regarding it with a 
tender, loving pride quite apart from any thought 
of its being his own work ; and Avice reflected 
his feelings, only that she was proud of the author 
too. That cloud on the memory of his ancestor 
troubled her only less than Simon, and she had 
got into hot water several times for flashing out 
when Priscilla started the subject. Avice could 
not see at all how the history was to be published 
until this cloud was dispersed, but she would not 
hear a word of blame thrown on the memory of 
that unlucky Simon Ashbury of the seventeenth 
century. Simonas interests were her own, and 


200 


THAT CHILD. 


slie championed him much more hotly than there 
was the least need for, and got afresh into 
Priscilla^s black books. 

Avice was the more with Simon because that 
winter was a long and severe one ; the snow lay 
far too deep to allow of that daily walk on which 
Priscilla insisted. But for a snow-plough, the 
roads would have been impassable, and, although 
Priscilla Beaumont and a few other hardy people 
enjoyed it, the weak and elderly could only keep 
indoors, and endure it as best they might. Simon 
looked frail and pinched, and could hardly get 
through his duties as organist, and Avice spent 
all the time she could in his study, always happy 
there, whether playing with Chilperic, practising 
on the organ, or copying and writing for Simon. 
It was not till February had come and gone 
that any one cared to go out of doors for pleasure. 
Then a few warm, deceitful days made every one 
hope winter had departed and spring was at hand, 
just as if they had not known just such treacherous 
promises many a time before. Avice was seized 
with a sudden longing for a country walk, and 
beguiled Simon into accompanying her. 


“ J’ra GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TO: 


201 


We may see some new bird/^ she suggested, 
half in earnest, half roguishly. ‘^1 think the one 
old Zachary spoke of last week may have been a 
snow-bunting — don^t you ? I almost wish he had 
caught it, though it is a shame that no rare bird 
can come but a dozen people rush to kill it.^^ 

Whether to please Avice or to try to see the 
snow-bunting, Simon consented to go. The 
country still looked wintry, — those white streaks 
which the peasantry say call for more snow lay 
on the shady side of every hedge, and the sky 
was of a cold, pale blue, against which leafless 
branches rose like giant seaweed. 

^‘’We have not had such a winter since that 
one of nearly five years ago,^^ Simon said, as they 
walked on. You can recollect nothing of it, 
I suppose ? 

Nothing. Mr. Ashbury, is there any one who 
could tell me about finding mamma, or what 
became of all her things ? You know, there must 
have been luggage. 

I have thought of that, but who could identify 
them? If full inquiries had been made at the 


202 


THAT CHILD. 


I do wisli I had something belonging to her \ 
Where did they take her ? 

We can ask that at the station-master^s/^ 

Avice liked going there. The good woman who 
had nursed her so tenderly always felt a strong 
interest in her. ^‘^How she has grown_, and how 
well she looks ! was the exclamation which called 
the attention of Simon to the fact that these 
last nine months had changed Avice to her ad- 
vantage. Eegular hours and meals^ and perhaps 
the happiness she owed to him, had been telling 
on her. She had grown, her expression was 
softened, her features were less pinched and pale, 
and her tumbled mane of hair was now twisted 
into a thick coil, which began to take a rich 
bronzed tint. Simon wondered he had not ob- 
served it before; he smiled, well pleased. They 
learned that the poor dead mother had been 
carried to a cottage about a mile further on, and 
took their way thither. It was close to the rail- 
way; the same people lived there as inhabited 
it when the accident took place. The owner asked 
Simon to sit down, and dusted a chair. Avice 
found a wooden stool, and nursed the cat — a 


rVE GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TOJ 


203 


poker-tailed cat/^ as slie observed, with a shade 
of contempt ; but Chilperic, with his ostrich 
feather, not being at hand, she put up with 
it. Simon began talking of that other long 
winter, and of the calamity which marked it, 
and learned the few particulars there were to 
tell. 

My husband helped to carry the poor lady,^^ 
their hostess said. All the carriage she was in 
was smashed to bits. No one could think how the 
little girl — she did not know Avice — was not 
killed too, and snow falling and drifting all the 
while, and covering everything up. It was a week, 
I dare say, before everything was cleared away. 
When the snow melted, ever so many things were 
found scattered on the sides of the line, mostly 
broken.^^ 

What became of them ? Simon asked. 

Weil, sir, all that was of any value was taken 
to the station, as far as I know ; but, maybe, some 
trifles of no value got carried off. Plenty of 
children and grown people went to look at the 
place, you see ; but I don^t believe anything worth 
having was lost.^^ 


204 


THAT CHILD. 


I dare say not ; and no one is likely to 
claim them now/^ said Simon, noticing a certain 
uneasy tone. ‘‘ I should be glad, though, if any 
little thing belonging to that poor lady could be 
found. I wish I had thought of it sooner. This 
is her daughter.^^ 

Well, I never ! cried the woman, with lively 
interest. Her daughter ! Well, sir, the poor 
lady had a bag on her arm ; there was next to 
nothing in it, or I should have taken it straight 
to the station — one or two books that no one 
could read, so I used them to light the fire ; and 
the bag was all ruined by the children getting it to 
play with. The only thing I have now is a box, 
that I expect Miss here kept sweets in. Dear me ! 
she should have had it long ago, if IM ever thought 
of it. Pll get it this minute.^^ 

She took a box out of a little corner cupboard. 
Avice hurriedly put the cat down. 

IPs mine ! she cried. Papa gave it me on 
my birthday, just before he went away, full of bon- 
bons ; and thaPs my name, my own name, — I told 
you it was not Seaman. Look ! it is carved on 
the lid — ^ Simone, on her ninth birthday.' That 


rVE GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TO: 


205 


is what mamma called me. Do you see, Mr. 
Ashbury ? 

Yes, I see,^^ said Simon, in a trembling voice. 

Can you recollect your family name ? 

No, not all. Simone ! Why^ how strange ; it 
is the name your godchild gave her little girl. 
Do you think 

They looked at each other, Avice full of breath- 
less and startled wonder, Simon greatly moved. 

I don’t know. I hope he began, and 

then he put some money in the woman^s hand, and 
left the cottage with Avice. She was wild with 
excitement. 

Then we know who I am. Vve got people to 
belong to. Oh, Mr. Ashbury, you^ll find it all out, 
won^t you ? 

You may depend upon that,^^ he said, feeling 
as if all the vague fancies and suggestions which 
had long haunted him had taken shape ; I shall 
go to Avranches to-morrow.^^ 

And so he did, bidding Avice say nothing of 
the motive of his journey until he came back. She 
awaited his return with intense, unuttered excite- 
ment, but with little doubt of the result. Neither 


206 


THAT CHILD. 


had he ; to his mind there could be no question his 
godchild, widowed probably by the war, — he sud- 
denly recollected that the dead woman had been 
dressed as a widow, — had meant to seek him, and 
perhaps claim his protection for her daughter. He 
went on his quest, full of indescribable eagerness 
and hope, and Avice joyfully awaited his return. 
It was delayed longer than she could well bear, 
and Ashbury asked wonderingly whither he could 
have gone so suddenly ; but when, later, it oozed 
out that he had been in London, and had an inter- 
view with a publisher, the mystery seemed cleared 
up. Avice alone learned the whole history of that 
journey which began so hopefully, only to end in 
bitterest disappointment. He could not trace the 
Fortescues ; they had quitted Avranches long 
before the war, and that tide of dire misfortune 
had apparently obliterated all sign of them. He 
learned that Millicent had married a young French- 
man named Amiel, belonging to quite another part 
of the country, who probably had given his life for 
his country, and that was all. Advertisements 
and inquiries remained fruitless. 

My poor little girl ! ” Simon said, with almost 


^^rVE GOT PEOPLE TO BELONG TOT 207 


passionate tenderness, as Avice stood dumb, pale, 
and cold with intense disappointment, you can- 
not be more grieved than I am at my failure/^ 

I am never to belong to any one,^^ she answered, 
and it was like a cry of anguish. 

Yes, yes, my dear, you belong to me. I have 
no sort of doubt that you are Millicent Fortescue^s 
child, my dear old friend’s granddaughter. I 
cannot prove it, but I know it, I feel it.” 

Yes, perhaps. But we cannot prove it.” 

am sure of it,” protested Simon. ^^The 
name — the coming here — there is no real doubt.” 

People will say there is. Mr. Ashbury, I 
won’t have it all chattered over by every one in 
the place. Don’t tell them, don’t let them know. 
Oh, I thought I should be so proud when they 
heard 1 had a name and a family of my own, like 
every one else,” she said, with a choking sob. 

Please never say anything about it.” 

Simon had hardly been prepared for the cruel 
blow his failure would be, deeply disappointed 
though he himself was. He saw now that he had 
under-rated the strength of her feeling on the 
subject, and he almost wished that the box had 


208 


THAT CHILD. 


never been found. Almost, not quite, for it was to 
him an ever-increasing certainty that this girl was 
indeed his little namesake, and the belief was 
sweet to the lonely man. As ‘time went on, and 
stilled the first pang of disappointment, the ties 
between them grew dearer and stronger. Avice 
took to calling him Parrain, and their bond was^ 
perhaps, the dearer for being unknown to the 
outside world. She could not bear to have it dis- 
cussed, and he would have shrunk with sensitive 
pain had any one thrown a doubt on the parentage 
in which he firmly believed. They belonged to 
each other, and the sound of Avice^s voice, calling 
him Parrain,^^ would float pleasantly to his 
mental ear even when he sat alone at his writing- 
table, with Chilperic lying couched like a lynx at 
the back of his chair, or while he was sending 
sweet waves of sound from the keys of his organ. 
Avice had found one person, at least, in whose 
heart she had a home. 


THAT CHILD. 


209 


CHAPTER X. 

AN OLD man’s hobby. 

JX the course of the next year Ashbury was 
electrified by a discovery which might be said 
to have been jointly made by Avice and Chilperic. 
From time to time Chilperic distinguished himself 
by catching a mouse. He was always very proud 
of himself on these occasions, and brought it to 
show his master or Davies, never tormenting it 
like a common cat, as Simon would remark with 
approval, but slaying it royally, with a buffet of his 
paw or a single bite. His happy hunting-ground 
generally was a long attic, only used to keep some 
old furniture and boxes in. Whenever Chilperic 
was missing, Simon charitably supposed him 
engaged in mousiug in the attic, and therefore, 
when absent one day for a good many hours, no 
one was disquieted; but when supper-time came 
and he did not appear, some uneasiness was felt, 
for Chilperic’s punctuality at meals was exemplary, 
p 


210 


THAT CHILD. 


If lie had a fault it was being — not greedy^ Simon 
never would have admitted that^, but a gourmet. 
It disturbed Simonas rest that night not to know 
where his cat was_, and he was quite unsettled the 
next day when Chilperic did not return. Avice 
came in after school-hours ; she now generally 
learned her lessons for the next day in Simonas 
study^ and then practised. 

Chilperic missing ! she said. ‘^‘^Has Davies 
looked in the attic ? 

Yes; he is not there."’^ 

Parrain^ don^t worry yourself ; he^ll come 
back as he did that time before. You look quite 
il].^^ 

It was true^ but Simon had been looking ill 
ever since that journey to France^ when he caught 
a severe cold and neglected it. People said that 
he looked quite an invalid^ but he never allowed it ; 
he only felt tired, he would answer. He could 
hear Avice calling Chilperic about the house, and 
go up to the attic. She called again and listened. 
A faint mew replied, but no cat bounded to meet 
her or spring on her shoulder with a soft head 
rubbing against her cheek. She looked about. 


AN OLD MAN^8 HOBBY. 


211 


puzzled. Evidently Chilperic was somewhere 
near and in trouble^ for a second mew came almost 
from under her feet. Pushing aside an old arm- 
chair she saw a hole in the floor, and a feeble cry 
told that poor Chilperic had crept in and found 
himself entrapped; the broken points bent, no 
doubt, readily enough as he forced his way down, 
but entirely prevented his getting out again. 

Chilperic, dear ! Ifll let you out, wait a little,^^ 
cried Avice, and flew downstairs to call help. 
Simon and Davies came, but a carpenter had to be 
fetched to take up the planks before the cat could 
be freed. However, with his master and Avice 
talking sympathetically to him, no doubt he kept 
up his spirits, and he was ready for a double 
portion of milk when released. Simonas attention 
was diverted from him by the carpenter^s remarks 
on the rottenness of the flooring. There seemed 
to be a double floor, with a space between, used 
probably in old times as a hiding-place for many 
things. Avice came back when Chilperic had been 
fed, to see what was going on. The carpenter was 
just saying, Now, sir, if any one were to step on 
this plank, as likely as not theyM go through,^^ 

p 2 


212 


THAT CHILD. 


and Simon ruefully answered, Oli, I don’t think 
it’s as bad as that, Parkes.” 

Well, look here, sir,” said Parkes, and sent his 
hammer through with ease. Simon had to own 
the floor must be laid down again, and a few days 
later workmen were making the house resound 
with knocking, greatly discomposing both Simon 
and Ohilperic. Avice, running up to inspect, 
found the floor up, and the men lifting out a box 
which had lain in this hiding-place unsuspected. 
Avice summoned Simon. What can it be ? ” 
she cried. Have you a key ? ” 

It had to be broken open. Simon looked on 
;*Tather excited. Take out whatever there is,” he 
said, smiling to Avice; ^Het us see what we owe 
-/to you and Chilperic.” 

She lifted out a package which clinked as she 
imoved it, then another. The workmen stood by, 
-expectant. 

A silver plate and a drinking-cup,” she cried, 
opening it, and this is spoons and another great 
cup.” 

Family plate ! My crest is on it. Go on by all 
means, my dear.” 


AN OLD MAN’S HOBBY. 


213 


No more plate, — papers, and a bag — of money E 
Only look ! 

Money ! said tke carpenter, evidently hoping 
that all concerned in such a find had a right to go 
shares, but Simon was not thinking of the money. 
His trembling fingers were opening the papers, 
and he looked very pale. I — I must examine 
these downstairs,^^ he said, carrying them away, 
and would have left the plate and money on the 
floor had not Avice taken care of them. A sudden 
hope filled her with joy. Is it ? she asked,, 
when she stood by his chair in the study. Was- 
it all hidden there when your ancestor went to join 
Monmouth ? And did he die, and not dare to tell 
where the money and all were ? 

So it would appear,^^ said Simon, hardly re- 
covering from the joyful shock. These are the 
missing papers,, and the money, no doubt, is im 
that bag. Either he died in battle or prison, and, 
had no one to whom he dared confide the secret, 
but that, I imagine, we shall never know."’^ 

But his name is cleared, and you can finish the 
history of Ashbury. Oh, do put in it how Chilperic 
made us find the deeds ! And the hospital will 


214 


THAT CHILD. 


have the lands, and Miss Priscilla will have nothing 
more to say ! 

She was partly right and partly wrong. Simon 
made over the money to St. Wulf stands, and the 
annual income was slightly increased by it, but the 
lands had long been sold, re-sold, and parcelled out 
among many owners, whose title could not now be 
disturbed. Simon worked at his history with 
fresh vigour, re-wrote and altered, and enlarged, 
read it all through again, corresponded with people 
all over England about pedigrees and facts which 
he wanted to ascertain. It seemed to absorb him 
as much as ever, yet it made very slow progress. 
The vicar, dismayed at what Simon had learned 
from London publishers would be the cost, told 
him he ought to publish it by subscription, and he 
admitted it, but the idea went against him, and he 
took no steps for doing it. Avice had grown into 
something like his secretary, and he insisted on 
giving her a small salary, which she accepted with 
almost angry reluctance. 

^^The work is none the less one of love, my 
dear,^^ he said, with gentle determination, and you 
will be none the worse for having a little money of 


AN OLD MAN’S HOBBY. 


215 


your own/^ He was so afraid that Priscilla would 
think Avice did not really earn her salary that he 
went to see her, though he had never got over his 
nervous fear of her, even now that she had no more 
to say about St. Wulf stands, and made her under- 
stand that Avice^s services were really valuable to 
him. As he had foreseen, it made a difference in 
the girFs position. Priscilla no longer felt her a 
mere waif, supported by charity, and treated her 
less domineeringly, though they never would be 
comfortable together, and she was glad to think 
that soon Avice would be old enough to take a 
situation. Simon, on his part, wanted her to con- 
tinue studying music, and could not bear the 
thought of losing her, either as companion or 
pupil, but he was one, perhaps, too willing to let 
the morrow take care of itself, and not forestall 
trouble. For a time Avice must remain in Ash- 
bury, learning from Miss Owen, who had had to 
take a large house for her boarders, and held out 
hopes to Faith Kitel of a salary for superintending 
the younger pupils. Miss Owen had advised 
Priscilla to let Avice make music her main study, 
and not to press examinations upon her. There 


216 


THAT CHILD. 


was no reason why the girl should not be well 
educated, she said ; but her gift was for music. 
Some day she would compose well. Miss Owen 
thought, and her opinion had a great deal more 
weight with Priscilla than that of Simon Ashbury, 
though he certainly might be expected to know 
most about it. 

So months passed into years, and the eighth 
winter came since Avice appeared in Ashbury- — a 
mild one this time, but with occasional cold winds 
and sudden falls of the temperature even more 
trying than steady cold. Simon was one who suf- 
fered especially, and one Sunday afternoon Avice 
feared he would hardly get through his part of the 
service. She recognised that his fingers touched 
the keys feebly, and that it was an efibrt to him to 
play ; and it took her by surprise when the con- 
cluding voluntary swelled out with a noble power 
and exultation which appealed to every musical ear 
in the church, and even detained many in their 
seats until the last note died away who usually 
were prompt to leave the church. 

I never heard Mr. Ashbury play so well all the 
years I have known him,^^ Miss Kitel, who loved 


AN OLD MANS HOBBY. 


217 


sacred music, said to Mrs. Johnson, the lawyer^s 
wife, as she took Faith^s arm in the porch, ^^it is 
quite a privilege to hear him.^^ 

And this was the general opinion. Avice could 
not have explained the weight on her heart as she 
went home, nor her anxiety to see Simon the fol- 
lowing day. It was a relief to find him much as 
usual, only very weary as he said; but he was 
writing, and wrote diligently all that day and the 
next, though Avice, urged by Davies, begged him 
not to overtire himself, and threatened to hide pen 
and ink. 

I shall soon have ample time to resV^ he said, 
smiling gently, perhaps recalling the last words of 
Mendelssohn^s great ancestor, and the weight fell 
again on her heart. On the Saturday, as the 
vicar stood in his garden, shaking his head over 
the premature shoots of foolish plants which 
seemed mistaking February for April, Avice came 
up with a troubled look. 

Mr. Lisle,^^ she said, I am afraid Mr. Ash- 
bury will not be able to take the organ to- 
morrow.^^ 

Bless me ! what are we to do ? was 


218 


THAT CHILD. 


tlie vicar^s first natural exclamation. Is he 
ill?^’ 

don^t know; he will not have any doctor, 
but he seems to have no strength. I wish you 
would get him to send for Dr. Medland.^^ 

ni go and see him at once. What on earth 
are we to do about to-morrow ? 

He said I could play, if you do not object. I 
would do my best.’^ 

A little flush came to Avice^s cheek ; it seemed 
a great event to her. 

shall only be too glad,^^ said the vicar, 
delighted at any way out of the diflSculty, and 
he walked down the little narrow street with her 
to Simonas house. She left him at the door, 
and he went up-stairs and found Simon in his 
armchair, dressed with his usual precise neatness, 
which was always such a contrast to the vicar^s 
perfect indifference to his attire. Just now, in 
pure absence of mind, he had put on two cravats, 
and had the knot of one under his left ear. 
Simon held out a thin, withered hand cheerfully, 
but did not try to rise. Something in his face 
startled the vicar ; it seemed to him that there 


AN OLD MANS HOBBY. 


219 


were written on it the characters of the unknown 
language of the world unknown.^^ 

^^Why, I don^t hear a good account of you, my 
friend/^ he said. How are you feeling ? 

Not much to boast of/' said Simon, cheerily, as 
if it were rather good news than not. I'm 
feeling old." 

Old, nonsense ! You are only a couple of years 
or so my senior. You don't call a man of fifty- 
seven or so old — eh ? " 

^‘1 feel so, and there is nothing much left for me 
to do." 

Tut, tut ! there is the History of Ashbury ' 
to finish." 

It is completed," said Simon, with a kindling 
of enthusiasm in his face. I have only to arrange 
for publication." 

Why, I congratulate you and us ! The opus 
magnum finished ! Ashbury will have its history, 
and no one else could have done the old place such 
justice." 

Yes, I love every stone of it. I have a childish 
pleasure in thinking that its history has been 
written by an Ashbury — the last of them. But if 


220 


THAT CHILD. 


I bad many years before me I should sadly miss 
the work. Now there is nothing to think about 
except my poor Avice. I cannot bear to think of 
her struggling alone through, the world, and she 
ought to have a thorough musical education. A 

girl friendless and poor 

Ah, you mean to provide for her ? said the 
vicar, who had long taken this for granted. 

said Simon, much startled, My money 
is devoted to another object. I wish I could, but 

the very little there will be left 

Of course, it is no affair of mine ; it was only 
an idea I had,^^ said the vicar. Miss Priscilla 
ought to take care of her.^^ 

Yes, yes,^^ said Simon, hurriedly, and he 
looked so flushed and harassed that the vicar 
hastened to talk of something else ; nor was Avice 
named again, but when left alone the thought of 
her pressed incessantly upon him. Perhaps his 
unpractical nature had prevented his considering 
the subject until now ; and besides, as he said, he 
regarded his money as devoted to his books. Yet 
now he kept asking himself what would become of 
this penniless, solitary girl, if, one day, she fell ill. 


AN OLD MAN^S HOBBY. 


221 


or Priscilla died,, or age came and rendered her 
unable to work. So the vicar had thought he, 
Simon Ashbury, would provide for her, although 
he did not know she was MillicenPs child. She 
needed a great deal more musical instruction ; she 
ought to study hard for several years ; and then, 
no doubt, she would be an excellent musician. It 
would be very lonely for her when he was gone, 
and she would miss him sorely — very sorely. 

I believe I should have done better to invest 
that money for her which went to repair the 
Market-hall,^^ he thought, and then reproached 
himself for it. There will be almost nothing left 
when the book is published, and Davies has her 
legacy, and Lawrie and Cardwell theirs.^^ Simon 
helped several old pensioners with a generous hand. 

They must not suffer by my death. Still, I 
always meant to leave her what I could, poor 
child ! 

He rose feebly, leaning on the furniture as he 
went to his table, and took out papers covered 
with calculations about the cost of his book, and 
then he looked at the account-book which contained 
notes of his income. 


222 


THAT CHILD. 


It^s not mucli/'’ he thought, more and more 
troubled. There^s the house : she might let 
it, but it would have to be kept in repair, and 

I know the chimneys there would be too 

little left. I might, perhaps, publish, as Lisle 
said, by subscription ; but no, it is too late for 
that ! 

He sat thinking until Mrs. Davies brought 
candles, and scolded him for tiring himself. He 
did look very tired, and when he got to bed he lay 
awake dwelling on the same thoughts. 

^^My lifers work — of great interest, Parkinson 
said, and I know no better judge — local interest 
certainly, but a most valuable contribution, — he 
told me himself, — to county and antiquarian litera- 
ture. I know it is that. Ashbury ought to have 
its history written, and no one could do it as I 
have done, or ever will. It would be a sin to 
abandon my plan. It is my lifers work.^^ 

And then he thought of Avice, whom he loved, 
too, and of the sad life before her, and lay, tossed 
amid conflicting thoughts, miserably perplexed. 
How could he sacrifice all the hopes and labour 
of these long years, and leave Ashbury without 


AN OLD MAN’S HOBBY. 


223 


a record ? And yet Perhaps it is an old 

man’s hobby against a young girl’s happiness/’ 
he murmured, with a long sigh, as dawn broke 
chill and gray, and found him still waking ; but 
it comes too hard, too hard. God forgive my 
selfishness ! ” 

Pew would have laid that sin to the door of 
Simon Ashbury. 

He was silent and abstracted all the next day, 
and put aside Avice’s anxious attempts to interest 
him. No one guessed what a struggle he was 
going through. A look of great trouble and distress 
settled on his face, as if he had not strength for the 
sacrifice that pressed itself on him. Mrs. Davies 
urged him to go to rest early, but her sleep was 
broken by anxiety for her kind master, and, lying 
awake in the middle of the night, she perceived 
a smell of burning, and, hurrying on her clothes, 
knocked at her master’s door. He was not in his 
room, and she ran to the study, and found him 
there. Evidently he had not been to bed. 

am so sorry to have alarmed you,” he an- 
swered; was only burning some papers.” 

Burning papers, sir, at this time of night, and 


224 


THAT CHILD. 


you wanting all the rest you can get ! exclaimed 
Davies, highly indignant. 

shall rest well now/^ he said, gently; and she 
long remembered the sweetness of his expression. 
Good-night, Davies 

You’ll let me clear the grate, sir! My gracious, 
the whole hearth is full of smoking papers I It’s 
a wonder you did not set the chimney on fire I ” 
Simon looked at the hearth with wistful eyes, 
but he smiled. 

There’s no harm done, Davies; it’s best so, 
best so. Good-night. Send for Mr. Johnson early 
to-morrow — don’t forget.” 

Davies looked at him with sudden apprehension. 
^^Yes, I want to make my will. Good-night, 


Davies.” 


TEAT CHILD. 


225 


CHA.PTER XI. 

FAREWELL TO ASHBURY. 

Ashbury learned that Simon would no 
more be seen in his old familiar place, there 
was not a voice but spoke in tender, regretful 
terms of the gentle and retiring man who had 
spent his life in quiet benevolence, so unobtrusive, 
that only now, when every one compared notes, 
was it known how much good he had done, and 
what constant kindness he had shown. His life 
had been like a quiet brook, keeping the meadows 
green without sound or rush, and which, though 
clouds might be reflected in it and darken its 
current, yet soon flowed out into the light, pure 
and limpid as ever. Each day took a little from 
his strength, and obliged him to lay down one 
occupation after another, as Avice noted, with her 
heart wrung by every token that soon he to whom 
her best love was given, the only person on whom 
she felt she had any claim, would have passed 


226 


THAT CHILD. 


away. So good, so kind, and he is gone ! — 
the line kept floating through her mind like a 
knell. He did not keep his bed; he had never 
given any trouble all his life, and it seemed as if 
even now he did not know how to do so ; nor did 
his cheerfulness fail in weariness and weakness. 

Youfll study music and do me credit,^^ he once 
said to Avice, with a kind smile. ^^My collection of 
old music and classical composers is valuable; I am 
glad it will go to some one who will use it.^^ He 
liked to have her about him, and she forced back 
her sorrow, and tried only to think of him and 
help poor Davies, who went about with eyes swollen 
by tears, which burst forth out of his sight, though 
she was elaborately cheerful when in his room. 
He spoke often of his wife and child now ; he could 
bear to do it with their meeting so near. Some- 
times they seemed to Avice close by already. 

Parrain,^^ she said, one morning, with a little 
hesitation, I had such a strange dream last night. 
May I tell you ? Well, then, I thought I saw a 
girl coming towards me in a sort of gently-bright 
light, and she looked at me with such lovely eyes, 
and her face — I canH describe it, but it looked 


FAREWELL TO ASHBURY. 


227 


as if slie had grown up in Paradise, and had never 
known sin or sorrow ; I shall never forget it. 
And she smiled at me, and called me by my name, 
Simone, not Avice — and kissed me on the lips; 
and somehow I knew it was your daughter, who 
has grown up in Paradise.^’ 

Simon listened intently, with a great pleasure 
in his countenance ; but he made no comment, 
beyond a quiet nod of acquiescence. 

^^It did not seem like a dream,^^ Avice said, 
softly. I should know her again.^^ 

Ay, ay, you will. So my little girl came to 
thank you for being good to me. Ah, she looks 
like that, then. And her mother — but she will 
not have changed, I think, except as those in the 
celestial mansions change. Anyhow, I shall know 
her and she me, or, whatever we are, we shall not 
be ourselves. But I do not want to see them first 
— no, not first.^^ 

Don^t you ? said Avice, wonderingly. 

No, my dear, no. I hope my eyes will first 
rest on my blessed Lord, and my first thought in 
the other world be all His. Here, I am afraid, I 
have never given Him my best love ; earthly 
Q 2 


228 


THAT CHILD. 


things have mixed with it and with my prayers. 
Think what it will be to be able to offer perfect 
worship and see His face ! Ah, the best thing our 
beloved can do will be to stand aside, I think, and 
let Him lead us to each other/^ 

It had been almost too great an effort to say so 
much. Avice kissed him, and felt as if her heart 
would break. She never saw him again alive; 
he passed away very quietly before midnight. 

After the funeral, his will was opened, the vicar 
being present by the request of the lawyer who 
had drawn it up. Some legacies were left to 
various people, an annuity to his faithful servant, 
Elizabeth Davies, and the rest of his money was 
bequeathed to Avice, on two conditions — first, that 
she should study music for three years in London 
or Vienna; and, secondly, that she should take 
the name of Fortescue. The vicar and Mr. John- 
son were named as her guardians. It would not 
be more than a moderate income, but it seemed 
wealth for a penniless orphan, and the vicar 
hastened to seek Miss Priscilla. 

I think it is due to you/^ he said, as hitherto, 
ill some sense, the guardian of Miss Seaman, to 


FAREWELL TO ASHBURY. 


229 


announce to you first that the late !Mr. Ashbury 
has left her^ certain legacies and expenses being 
paid^ his house and remaining fortune^ about £250 
a year/^ 

That child ! exclaimed Priscilla^ astounded. 

It was the last time that Avice was ever called 
that child.-’^ In the eyes of others^ even before 
she attained the dignity of being Simon Ashbury^s 
heiress_, she had reached the dignity of young 
ladyhood; but Priscilla always saw her as she was 
in the first days of her acquaintance. 

Avice! come here/^ and as Avice entered, 
pale and sad-eyed, Priscilla forestalled the vicar, 
about to make his announcement with due form, 
by exclaiming, Had you any idea that Mr. 
Ashbury meant to leave you his money ? 

To me ? no ; it will go to publish his book ; 
he always said so.^^ 

It would seem he altered his mind, since the 
chief part of his property is left to you,^’ said the 
vicar, a good deal put out by Priscilla’s thus 
brusquely taking his business upon herself. 

But what will be done about the book ? ” asked 
Avice, too anxious about this matter, — aware, as 


230 


THAT CHILD. 


she was, of its boundless importance in the eyes of 
Simon, — at all to consider how the news affected 
herself. 

I think you might show a little gratitude for 
once,^^ said Priscilla, sharply. 

The vicar understood her better. 

My dear, I think he felt his money better 
spent on yourself,^^ he said. 

On me ! Do you mean I am to have it instead 
of the book being published ? I woiPt, Mr. Lisle y 
nothing shall make me. ITl spend it all on the 
book.^^ 

“ My dear, we cannot even find it. As far as 
we can make out, no manuscript exists anywhere.^^ 
But it must be found ! I know exactly where 
it is, in the drawers of the writing-table ; he kept 
the key on his watch-chain.^^ 

I know, but it is not there. He opened the 
drawers before me two days before his death, and 
two were empty; in the others were letters and 
papers which I have been lookiug through to-day 
with Johnson, and he said emphatically, ^ Kecollect,. 
I have no papers or manuscripts whatever except 
these.* ** 


FAREWELL TO AmBUBY. 


231 


But it must be somewhere. I can't have the 
money, Mr. Lisle ; I won't have it ! " cried Avice, 
with vehemence, the more intense from being 
suppressed. You don't know — nobody knows 
but I how he cared about the history, or how he 
thought about it, and worked at it. He never 
could have meant me to have that money, I am 
certain, if it would prevent the book being pub- 
lished, and I should hate it. Do let me go and 
look ; I am sure I shall find it." 

You have every right to look, my dear ; but 
first you must hear what more I have to say." 

Avice stood trembling with impatience, and 
twisting her fingers hard together, as if she had 
been still eight years old. 

There are conditions attached to this bequest. 
You are to study music for three years in London 
or Germany, and take the name of Fortescue." 

'' Of Fortescue !" exclaimed Priscilla. What's 
that for ? " 

Perhaps Miss Avice can tell us," said the 
vicar. 

Avice's lips were quivering so much that she 
could hardly speak. She was touched to the 


232 


THAT CHILD. 


heart by the tender thoughtfulness of her old 
friend. 

He always thought mamma was a Fortescue^ 
and the daughter of his old friend, she faltered. 

He could not quite prove it, but we both be- 
lieved it, and he wanted me to have a name of my 
own, I think.^^ 

Well/^ said Priscilla, really hurt, I think I 
might have been told this before. 

I did not know you would care,'^ said Avice, 
with genuine surprise. 

One must never expect gratitude from any 
one,^^ said Priscilla, under her breath. She was 
more wounded than she or any one else could have 
believed. 

am sorry,^^ said Avice, still more surprised, 
and the vicar looked on and made his silent 
comments. ^‘^May we go?^^ she added, unable 
to think of anything but the lost manuscript. 

Simon Ashbury was always — odd,^^ said Pris- 
cilla. ^‘^What a wild idea, to stipulate that she 
should study in London, and take this name. Is 
it really necessary ? 


FAREWELL TO ASHBURY. 


233 


Qaite^ if slie is to inherit.. It seems to me 
an excellent arrangement. Bat I should like to 
know on what he founded his belief. Ready^ Miss 
Avice ? Come, then. Even if you found this 
manuscript/^ he said, as they crossed the street, 
what could you do ? You are aware it would 
cost a fabulous sum to publish it as our poor friend 
wished.^^ 

That would not matter, if it could be done.’^ 

As your guardian I could not allow it, my 
dear child.^^ 

Not allow it ? But the money is mine.^’ 

Not until you are of age, and even then there 
would be difficulties.^^ 

I would not touch it ; I would save it all till 
I could use it as he meant. Why, what else could 
I do, Mr. Lisle ? ” 

Well, we will see if it can be found before 
discussing that,^^ said the vicar, inwardly sure it 
would not be discovered. 

Nor was it. Vainly Avice searched with obsti- 
nate resolution, too unhappy at its disappearance 
to think of her altered prospects. 


234 


THAT CHILD, 


Mr. Lisle, where can it be ? she asked at 
last, pale and tearful. 

From something Davies says, I fancy he may 
have destroyed it.’^ 

Oh, he could not, he could not ! Don^t say 
that ! exclaimed Avice, bursting into a passion 
of tears. 

The vicar called Davies to comfort her, but it 
was as if all the pent-up grief o£ these last weeks 
now broke forth and overwhelmed her. She could 
not give up the hope of finding some nook where 
the manuscript might have been put, though well 
aware that such a mass of writing could not easily 
be concealed. It was the bitterest disappointment 
to her that the life-work of her old friend should 
thus have vanished. 

Mr. Lisle, what can he have done with it ? 
Do you think it did not satisfy him just at the 
last ? she asked, piteously. 

The vicar had his own opinion, but he did not 
mean to give it in words. 

Well, we all know he was hypercritical of all 
his work,^^ he answered ; but, my dear, will you 


FAREWELL TO AmBXTBY. 


235 


satisfy me on one point ? He once told me yon 
had rendered him a great service. Can you tell 
me what it was ? 

great service? I? Ho, unless it was through 
Chilperic^s finding the papers. 

^^No, no ; it was before that.^^ 

cannot think, unless he meant telling him 
about the golden oriole. 

Nonsense,^^ said the vicar. 

Thereon was a good deal of discussion as to how 
the plans for Avice should be carried out. She 
wished to study for a time at the Koyal Academy 
of Music in London, and there was some idea of 
settling her in a family which Priscilla recom- 
mended, but the expense was too great, and Davies 
solved the difficulty by saying : 

Miss Avice, dear, if youTl have me 1^11 ask no 
wages. My dear master has made me comfortable 
for life, and like to go with you that he was so 
fond of, and you of him. Now, why shouldnT 
you and I and Chilperic take quiet lodgings, and 
Miss Faith join us, now there^s this talk of her 
being mistress in that day-school in London 


536 


THAT CHILD. 


Miss Owen, generously anxious to do Faith, a good 
turn, had recommended her as under-mistress to a 
great London day-school, and her certificates had 
proved satisfactory. How comfortable you both 
'^would be together, and me to look after you, my 
<lear.^^ 

Avice fell on her neck and kissed her. 

^^How I will study she said, her heart 
full of love and gratitude to Simon Ashbury, 
though she never knew the sacrifice that he had 
made for her sake. 

Visitors, who came occasionally to see the quaint 
old town and the fine church and Market-hall at 
Ashbury, would ask, wonderingly, how it was that 
no guide-book to its antiquities existed ; and they 
would be told by the bookseller in the High Street 
that it was always expected that the late well- 
known antiquary, Mr. Ashbury, would publish a 
great local history, which had occupied him for 
many years, but after his death the manuscript 
eould not be found, and it appeared that he had 
not been able to make up his mind to entrust its 
publication to others. This was the explanation 


FAREWELL TO AiiHBURY. 


237 


whicli the townsfolk finally adopted of the mystery 
about which for a long while there was so much 
talk, and no one but the vicar, who held his 
peace, ever surmised the true reason why Ashbury 
never had its history printed. 


THE END. 


WYMAN AND SONS, PKINTEKS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON, W,C. 








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